As If You Have a Choice
by theatricalveggie
Summary: "Peeta, I wasn't honest with…" Peeta squeezes my hand in his and I lose my words. It's the first real touch we've shared in almost half a year. This is a re-telling of the Victory Tour with more detail on the early rumblings of the rebellion in each district and how Katniss and Peeta rebuilt their relationship. Canon-divergent. [Light Up Series - Book 1]
1. The Start of the Tour

**Author's Note**

Thanks for reading my new story! This story is a Canon-divergent story isolated to the Victory Tour - assume everything up to the Victory Tour is as the books described it, but I plan on straying a little bit in the re-telling. Italics that aren't flashbacks are direct quotes from Suzanne Collins.

 **The Start of the Tour**

 _A visit from President Snow. Districts on the verge of uprisings. A direct death threat to Gale, with others to follow. Everyone I love doomed. And who knows who else will pay for my actions? Unless I turn things around on this tour. Quiet the discontent and put the president's mind at rest. And how? By proving to the country beyond any shadow of a doubt that I love Peeta Mellark._

 _I can't do it, I think. I'm not that good. Peeta's the good one, the likable one. He can make people believe anything. I'm the one who shuts up and sits back and lets him do as much of the talking as possible. But it isn't Peeta who has to prove his devotion. It's me._

 _I hear my mother's light, quick tread in the hall. She can't know, I think. Not about any of this. I reach my hands over the tray and quickly brush the bits of cookie from my palm and fingers. I take a shaky sip of my tea. "Is everything all right, Katniss?" she asks._

 _"It's fine. We never see it on television, but the president always visits the victors before the tour to wish them luck," I say brightly._

 _My mother's face floods with relief. "Oh. I thought there was some kind of trouble."_

 _"No, not at all," I say. "The trouble will start when my prep team sees how I've let my eyebrows grow back in." My mother laughs._

My mother offers to draw a bath, and I accept. I've been trying to let her do things for me. Let her take care of me. Or think she is, anyway. Trying to mend the disrepair in our relationship will never be easy, but I can't punish her for the rest of her life. If I learned anything in the Arena, it's that some things are beyond our control. I let my body soak in the steaming water, the air fragrant and thick with the scent of dried flowers and lavender oil. I let my fingers pucker and I think.

Who should I tell? Should I tell anyone? Obviously not my family, that's out of the question. Not Gale. He'd overreact, and there's nothing he could do about it anyway. If anything, he'd cause more trouble. I don't need to fan the flame of fury that kindles within him. If I'm forced into another game with Snow, then I need people who know how to play. I want to tell Cinna, but I don't want him in any more trouble than I've already put him in. I should tell Peeta, I know that, but where do I even begin? _Hey, Peeta, remember how I told you I was kind of faking being in love with you? Well, I really need you to forget about that now and act extra in love with me or the president might kill Gale._ I can't hurt him like that. Not again. Besides, Peeta will perform whether he knows he's supposed to be or not. He knows the ride we're on.

So… Haymitch. My drunken, curmudgeon of a mentor, who I just poured a basin of water on. He's kept me alive once before. Maybe he can do it again. I wish I could disappear into this bathwater. Evaporate into the air like the steam leaking from the surface. Linger for a moment as mist, then dissipate and be done with it all. My heart hurts. I take a deep breath and let my head sink under water, my body drifting heavily until my back rests on the bottom of the porcelain tub. I open my eyes and see the blurry world through two feet of water. It reminds me of staring at the sun from underwater in the lake. I slowly exhale and watch the bubbles burst on the surface one by one, until my lungs are empty and straining for air. I guess my respite is over. I pull myself up, only to be overtaken moments later by my prep team. They're early.

I stand and the water cascades from my body. There is no modesty here, and they don't even react to my nudity. They know my body better than I do. Venia grabs a towel from the rack on the wall and pats my body dry. "Katniss, your eyebrows!" she shrieks as she reaches my face.

"Oh, and look at her nails!" Octavia exclaims as she holds my fingertips in her own. She and Venia twitter like birds between themselves.

"Well, it appears she left her hair alone, like I asked!" Flavius boasts. He looks at me over his shoulder with a sly smile and teases, "It's because I'm your favorite, isn't it? I know it is!" I don't tell him it's because I'm lazy and don't care what my hair looks like.

They spend an hour massaging goo in my tresses and waxing my eyebrows. Between the scent of chemicals and the pain, my eyes are watering. Put me in an Arena, scorch me with a fireball, I can take it. But sitting perfectly still while someone rips every hair from your body… No one on my prep team seems to notice my discomfort. They chirp and cluck on about life in the Capitol, about shoes and birthday parties. About how excited they are for the Quarter Quell.

When they finally spin me to the mirror, I can see Cinna has asked them to make me look feminine. Girlish, not sexy. Good. I can handle girlish. My mother comes in and demurely says Cinna asked her to demonstrate how she did my hair for the Reaping. My prep team is absolutely fascinated as they watch my mother's deft fingers weave and knot my hair into an intricate braid. My mother blushes at their bountiful compliments, and I feel a sense of pride in my whimsical crew.

I dress and head downstairs, where I find Cinna in my living room. He flashes me a smile and his gold eyeliner shimmers in the lamp light of the early evening. He sweeps me into an embrace and I let myself forget all the bad things, just for this one moment.

Effie Trinket clears her throat. Her pumpkin-colored wig perches precariously high on her head and she claps and reminds everyone of our tight schedule. With a quick peck on each cheek, she waves in the camera crew and orders me into position. They film as I tour through the racks of clothing that Cinna, I mean, I designed. Cinna prepped me on the phone, and I do my best to sound flighty and carefree. We wrap up, and I catch Prim watching me from the kitchen, peeking around the corner on her tiptoes, like a tiny winged bird about to take flight, when – Bam! I lose my breath. I feel like I'm suffocating, like someone has punched me in the chest. I see Rue, my little bird, flying from one tree branch to another like her feet had never known the ground. Rue, who would sing to end the work day. Rue, who I let die. Who I let bleed to death in front of me. Who I couldn't save. Who else will I fail to save? My eyes dart around the room desperately, and I know this moment is just for me. I'm trapped in this torture in my own mind. I'm compliant as Cinna dresses me, but I feel like my throat is closing. I try to breathe. There are people I need to save from President Snow. I couldn't save Rue, but I'll save my family. And Gale's.

I barely notice as Cinna pins my mockingjay pin to the outside of my jacket. He ties a scarf around my neck, and it feels like a noose. She's standing right next to me, but Effie Trinket's normally piercing voice sounds like muffled discord. _"Attention, everyone! We're about to do the first outdoor shot, where the victors greet each other at the beginning of their marvelous trip. All right, Katniss, big smile, you're very excited, right?"_

I've barely made out the words before she quite literally shoves me out the door. The icy air robs my cheek of the fire and I can feel it filling my lungs. The cold drags me back to reality. The snow is coming down in earnest now, but I can see Peeta making his way from his door. The world gets very quiet, and dark, and I hear Snow's directive echo in my head, "Convince me."

 _And I know I must. My face breaks into a huge smile and I start walking in Peeta's direction. Then, as if I can't stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips — he still isn't entirely in command of his artificial leg — and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that's where we have our first kiss in months. It's full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I'm not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won't expose me in front of the cameras. Won't condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He's still looking out for me. Just as he did in the Arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry._

Panem got what they wanted.

The rest of the evening moves faster than I want it to. I hug my sister close before I pull away and board the train. I watch her on the platform. The train pulls away and she gets smaller until she finally disappears into the night.

The Victory Tour has begun.


	2. 12 to 11

The train barrels away from District 12 south, to District 11. The first few hours on the train are a blur. In a strange way, there is an odd comfort being with the old team again – Peeta and me, Effie and Haymitch, Cinna and Portia. People I trust. People I know. Dinner – decadent and delicious as every Capitol-inspired meal – is over quickly, and before I know it I'm swathed in pajamas and pacing in my compartment. I wait for the others to drift asleep. I'm sure it won't take long, it's been such a long day.

Haymitch, on the other hand... Haymitch does not like to sleep in the dark. Haymitch will be up for hours, and that's exactly what I'm counting on. When the train seems to have quieted down, I creep down the hall to his room. I quietly rap my knuckles on his door, but he does not answer. Impatient, I knock harder and he pulls open the door, his face twisted in a grimace. I can't be bringing him good news in the middle of the night.

"What?" he asks impatiently, the smell of alcohol fuming from his breath.

"I need to talk to you," I whisper in a hush.

"Now?" he says. I nod my head. "This better be good." He stands there, waiting for my confession, but I am unsure we can talk on the train. I don't know where the Capitol has installed listening devices. I don't trust these walls. In a moment almost too fortuitous to be true, the train begins to brake for a fuel stop.

"It's just so stuffy in here," I say. Haymitch understands. We can't talk here.

"I know exactly what you need." Haymitch leads me down the narrow hall of the sleeping car to the outside door. He wrestles with it for a minute, and it lurches open. Cold air and snow billow into the train, and he leaps from the car into the snow. He offers a hand, but I jump beside him without it. Almost immediately a Capitol attendant is rushing to our aid, but Haymitch waves him off.

"We'll be back in just a minute. Need some air." Haymitch pretends to stumble, and I look at the attendant and roll my eyes at my intoxicated mentor. The attendant nods in understanding and steps back into the train.

We make our way down the tracks a bit, not too far but a safe distance from the idle train. Haymitch's face sobers, the façade of the babbling drunk fading into one more serious and stoic. He looks at me, and I spill out everything. About Snow. About Gale. About how everyone is going to die if I can't pull this off.

"Well, then you've got to pull it off."

"I need your help, Haymitch. You need to help me get through the Tour," I plead, but he cuts me off before I can say more.

"Wake up, Katniss," he scolds, like he's talking to a child.

"What?" I scowl. Does he not think I can do it? I can do this for the next couple months. I can make them believe. I think I can…

 _"No, Katniss, it's not just this trip," he says. "Even if you pull it off, they'll be back in another few months to take us all to the Games. You and Peeta, you'll be mentors now, every year from here on out. And every year they'll revisit the romance and broadcast the details of your private life, and you'll never, ever be able to do anything but live happily ever after with that boy."_

His words ring in my ears, like the resonating tone that bellows through District 12 when they blast at the mine shaft. He's right. I don't know how I didn't already come to this conclusion. I will never have an ordinary life. I will never be with Gale, even if I wanted to be. I will never have my own life. Mine will forever be entwined with Peeta's. I see Haymitch's mouth moving. I know he's talking to me, but I just nod. If I want to keep my sister alive, this is my destiny. I'll have to marry Peeta. I feel Haymitch rest his hand on my shoulder, and we slog back to the train without words. We hoist each other back inside, and before parting, he turns and says to me, "You could do a lot worse, you know."

I wander aimlessly about the halls in my soaked pajamas before finally returning to my compartment. I hear Haymitch's words echoing over and over again in my head. I feel the life I never knew I wanted slipping away from me. Maybe I don't know what I want, but I know I want to be able to choose. We may have few freedoms in the districts, but at least we get to choose who we marry. Choose who we share our misery with. A choice. I don't even get that.

My head rushes to each inevitable conclusion. A marriage proposal. Our wedding. I'm sure Snow will insist we have children. I see myself standing there, watching helplessly as my child is reaped. I can't volunteer. I'm powerless. I'm haunted by waking nightmares of my future all night. The sun rises and I realize I didn't sleep. I spent the night sitting on my bed in wet pajamas.

I wear whatever the first thing is I pull from my dresser and walk down to the dining car for breakfast. Effie begins listing off the itinerary for the day, which I assumed would be mostly free time since we are traveling. As it turns out, today I get the works from my prep team.

"Why?" I complain. "It's too cold for anything to show."

"Not in Eleven!" she replies in a sing-songy tone. I wonder if this train has anywhere to hide.

The first stop is District 11. Just thinking about going there makes my stomach churn. Breakfast is suddenly unappetizing, and I pretend to eat while pushing the food around on my plate. I feel a bit guilty. Clearly the kitchen staff is trying to impress us with the delicacies, but I can't stomach anything right now. I feel exposed with just Effie sitting there, no one to distract her attention from honing in on me.

"Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Cinna was up late working on organizing your garment car. He must have at least a hundred outfits for you! The evening clothes are absolutely exquisite," Effie chatters along. I wonder if Cinna saw Haymitch and me sneak out last night.

"What about Peeta? Doesn't he need to be prepped?"

"Not like you, my dear," Effie replies, her eyebrows high on her forehead as she dabs a cloth napkin in the corner of her mouth.

This just makes me cynical and my food taste like mud. I pour myself a cup of black coffee. Peeta used to sweeten my coffee with creams and sugars to make it more tolerable, but he's not here and I don't know how to do that. I don't like the taste, but I know I won't make it through this morning if I don't force it down. My mind wanders throughout the prep session, vacillating between what my life will be like under the watchful eye of the Capitol to how it might change me over the years. Will they surgically alter my body as I age? Give me tattoos or whiskers? How will I survive mentoring? Watching children go to their deaths year after year, failing to save them? Will I turn to liquor like Haymitch? Will I become numb to it all, like Effie? Will they force me to leave 12? To leave Prim? Will they kill my family anyway, even if don't I step out line?

After hours of prodding and poking and ripping every hair from my body, uncountable baths and ointments and creams and solutions, I am finally released for lunch. Everyone else is already digging in, since most missed the crack of dawn breakfast with Effie and me. I thought I'd be hungry by now, but the smell of the food makes me queasy. I don't talk to anyone. I just slowly sip another coffee and wish it didn't taste so bitter. I can't even look at Peeta.

When the train lurches to an unexpected stop Effie launches into a tizzy. As if this matters. As if this is something anyone should care about at all. _She pulls out her schedule and begins to work out how the delay will impact every event for the rest of our lives. Finally I just can't stand to listen to her anymore. "No one cares, Effie!" I snap. Everyone at the table stares at me, even Haymitch, who you'd think would be on my side in this matter since Effie drives him nuts. I'm immediately put on the defensive. "Well, no one does!" I say, and get up and leave the dining car._

The air is hot and stifling in the train, and I know I need to get out. I bolt down the hall and find the exit Haymitch and I snuck through last night. I pull at the stubborn hatch until it releases with a jolt. An alarm sounds and I ignore it as I leap from the train to the earth. I need to feel real air on my face. I need to remember the world is out there. I'm expecting the frigid winter wind to bite my cheeks, but instead the air is humid and balmy. The plants and trees are bursting with green vegetation in the burning sunlight. How far have we traveled?

I stride on the narrow rail like a balance beam, walking heel to toe with arms in the air for stability. I need to catch my breath. I need to breathe. Already I'm regretting my words to Effie. I shouldn't have snapped at her. None of this is her fault. She can't change any of it. I want to skate away on this track, without saying goodbye, but instead I sink down to my feet and stare off into the distance. When I hear feet behind me, I immediately bristle defensively. I know I'm in the wrong, but I don't need Haymitch to point it out to me.

"I'm not in the mood for a lecture," I warn as I kick my toe into the dirt.

"I'll try to keep it brief." Peeta takes a seat beside me. My heart pounds in my chest, the way it does every time Peeta is near. I don't know if it's guilt, or something else. I think it's that I don't know how to act around him anymore. I swallow the lump in my throat.

"I thought you were Haymitch," I say.

"No, he's still inside." Peeta adjusts his prosthetic. A pang of guilt shoots in my chest. There's guilt. That's what it feels like. Peeta waits for me to talk. He's not going to force the issue. I'm quiet, and we sit for a minute, together. It feels… familiar yet foreign at the same time. After a while, Peeta takes a deep breath. "I've been wanting to say I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? I'm the one who yelled at Effie," I retort.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted after the Games. The last time we were out of the tracks together. I knew you had something going with Gale. I was jealous of him before we even shook hands. It was stupid of me to hold you to anything that happened in the Arena. You were just trying to keep us both alive. I misinterpreted what was going on, and I'm sorry." Peeta is quiet again. His words hang in the muggy air around us.

"I'm sorry, too," I say. I don't elaborate for what. I'm sorry about everything. I played the romance card for all it was worth in the Arena. And to be frank, I'm not totally sure I know where the act began and ended.

"You don't have to be sorry, Katniss. You saved our lives. I should have caught on. I was just seeing what I wanted to see. I should have known better than to think… You don't have to be sorry."

"I do, Peeta, I wasn't honest with…" Peeta squeezes my hand in his and I lose my words. It's the first real touch we've shared in almost half a year. His hand is large and completely envelopes mine.

"You kept us alive. You got us out of there. I just don't want us to keep going on the way we have. Playing it up for the cameras and ignoring each other in real life. I miss you. The real you." His eyes meet mine, and then drop to the ground.

"I miss you, too," I confess. And I do. I miss him so much it hurts. I didn't realize how much I missed him until he was sitting here next to me. Until I felt his calming presence permeate the tension I've been emanating since Snow's visit.

"So maybe if I stop acting, you know, wounded, and you stop looking at me like I am, maybe we could be friends," he offers.

I feel a small smile creep across my face. "Okay," I say.

"So, as your friend, what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him that. I can't tell him about Snow's threat. It would only put him in more danger than he already is. And he'll do his part anyway, whether he knows or not. I resume kicking the dirt. He gives me a lopsided grin. "You know, we kind of skipped all the becoming friends parts and went straight to the dying for each other thing. Why don't we start over?"

"Start over?" I ask.

"You know… get to know each other. Become friends. I mean, I know you'd give your life for mine, but I don't even know your favorite color."

I laugh. It feels strange, and somewhat of a release. I've been holding all this angst in me since Snow's visit, and for a second, just a split second, Peeta made me forget. "Green," I offer. "You?"

"Orange," he replies.

I look at him sideways. "Like Effie's hair?"

He laughs, too. It's the first real smile I've seen from him in a while. "No, not like that," he chuckles. "More muted. Soft. Like… like a sunset." His eyes drift off to the distance and I can see it in my mind. The sun burning off against the horizon, streaking brushes of soft orange across the sky like a brush on one of Peeta's canvases.

"Can I see your paintings?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course." Peeta stands and dusts his pants off before offering me a hand. I weave my fingers in his, not for the cameras, but as an act of friendship. It feels impossibly good to have him back. We climb into the train, but before we head down to the car that stores his paintings, I give his hand a tug.

"Hold on, I need to apologize to Effie," I say.

"Make it count," he winks at me.

I do. I lay it on thick, enumerating on her scheduling prowess. I think it's overkill, but Effie accepts the apology graciously.

Peeta and I slip away and he leads me down a few cars. I don't know what to expect. All I've ever seen him paint is flowers in icing on cakes or cookies. Maybe I was thinking I'd see peaceful still lifes of vases of flowers, but what I do see takes my breath away. Not in a good way. Peeta has painted the Games. He's more skilled with a brush than I'd imagined, and everything comes whirring to life on the canvases. Water dripping through the cracks of our cave. Foxface, her lips stained in crimson in berry juice, lying lifeless and still. Cato, bruised and battered, bones crushed through his armor, eyes pleading for mercy. Rue in a bed of flowers, a spear protruding unnaturally from her tiny chest like a shovel left in a snowbank. Glimmer, green eyes flashing, as she aims an arrow. One painting is almost surreal, shapes and colors and borders merging and blending. An outsider would have no idea, but I know immediately that it's a tracker jacker hallucination. Everything is there, but not quite... right. Off just enough to be disturbing. I'm everywhere. At the riverbank, beating clothes against a rock on the shore. Unconscious in a pool of blood. Perched in a tree. I can't breathe. I take in scene after horrific scene.

"Why did you do this?" I ask, my senses overwhelming me. I feel like I am in the Games again. My throat is dry and parched. I need water to swallow the bile rising from my stomach. "All I want is to forget what happened in there, and you've brought it back to life." My tone isn't accusatory. It's more… I don't understand. I want to understand, but I just don't.

"I don't know. I think… when I paint them, I almost feel like I have control over them somehow. Like I'm not so helpless. I see them every night, over and over, and I just…" He can't explain anymore but I get it. I get nightmares, too. "So… you hate them?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't hate them. I don't like them either, but… they really are extraordinary, Peeta." A flash of pain evaporates from his eyes as quickly as it comes, but I notice it. He's half smiling at me. Smiling isn't the right word to describe it. He has an undefinable face. His mouth is offering me comfort, but there is a misery in his eyes that I understand. I step forward and wrap my arms around his neck. He doesn't hug me back, but I hold him for a minute before I let go.

"Want to see my talent? Cinna's been working so hard," I tease. Peeta laughs, and the dark cloud dissipates.

"Maybe later," he says, looking over my shoulder as something catches his eye out the window. "Oh wow," he utters, stepping toward the glass. Unlike the dense woods of 12, the land lays open, with tall grass and cattle grazing. A fence towers at least thirty-five feet in the air, topped with impervious coils of barbed wire. It makes our fence back in District 12 look childish. Every hundred feet or so are watchtowers occupied by armed guards. Wildflowers dance in the light breeze that blows across the stunning fields, and the contrast between the beauty of the land and the severity of the fence is sickening. "That's something different," says Peeta.

We are in District 11.


	3. District 11

I know Rue told me life in District 11 was more regimented than what we had in 12, but I never imagined anything like this. It feels more like a prison than a place where people live. The sheer enormity of it is overwhelming. The crops stretch out in every direction, as far I can see. Men, women, and even tiny children tend to them, with straw hats on their heads and loose, ill-fitting clothing hanging from their bodies. The crops are segmented into very precise squares. When the fields of plants give way to orchards of trees, I think of little Rue, flying between branches. Singing the go home song. The homes make the houses in the Seam look luxurious. They are hardly more than sheds that go on row by row by row.

"How many people do you think live here?" Peeta asks. I just shake my head. How many people live here, and not one volunteered to save Rue. When Effie calls us inside to get ready, I don't protest.

I go to my compartment and zone out as my prep team does my hair and makeup. They make idle chit chat, and I contribute a "oh really" or "tell me more" every five minutes or so, and that seems to keep them appeased. Cinna brings in a yellow dress that ombres into a deep orange at the bottom, where the color gives way to a pattern of autumn leaves. Cinna taught me that word for my interview later. Ombre. It feels foreign in my mouth.

Our appearance is being held in the public square. There are too many residents to attend, and they can't take everyone away from the harvest. I'm not sure how they choose who comes and who works. Maybe a lottery. Their Justice Building is massive. At one time it must have been magnificent, but years of neglect have left the roof sagging and the marble littered with mold. The few shops and storefronts lining the square are abandoned. I wonder where the well-off residents live, but as I take in the district I'm quickly learning that unlike our class system in 12, there are no well-off residents here.

Effie is pointing to a large outdoor stage where we will give our speeches honoring the Capitol, the fallen tributes of the district, and the Games as a whole. The idea of giving a speech honoring the Games makes me want to puke. It's like poking an already traumatized animal. I want to lash out.

"I don't think I can do this," I whisper to Peeta, and he takes my hand in his. I'm so glad to have him here. I don't know how other Victors survive this alone. I don't wonder why Haymitch drowns himself in liquor.

The Peacekeepers usher us to our places, weapons at the ready like I might kill one of them with my hairband. "Really, you'd think we were all criminals!" Effie exclaims. No, just me, I think as I make eye contact with Haymitch. The spark in his eye acknowledges my concerns. There are thousands of people in the square, but you could hear a pin drop. I can hear the muffled voice of the Mayor, giving the usual speech. My palms are sweating and I wipe them on my dress, to the disapproving eye of my escort.

Peeta whispers in my ear, "Don't worry, I got this. You don't have to say anything unless you want to." I smile at him gratefully.

The giant double doors open, and Effie calls out "Big smiles!" as Peeta and I take the stage. Okay, I can do this. I can convince everyone I'm in love with Peeta. The audience is applauding loudly, but there are no cheers and whistles like we are used to. This is obligatory. My eyes fall on the crowd. Rue and Thresh's families are present. There is a special platform erected for them at the bottom of the stage, so their mourning can be put on spectacle for all of Panem. I remember trying to sleep one night before the Games, drifting off, and seeing my mother and sister standing on one of those stages, for everyone to gawk at. I woke in a cold sweat and didn't sleep the rest of the night.

Thresh's platform holds an elderly woman with a hunched back, and next to her is a tall, muscular, powerful looking young woman. I'd guess his sister, maybe. She holds her head high. She's not going to dignify them with tears. I like her. Rue's family… I am not prepared. Her parents are portraits of sorrow. Her father tries to stand tall, but his wife openly weeps in his arms. Rue had no big sister to save her. On the platform are five little ones who all look like they could be Rue if I blurred my eyes a little. Tiny. Wide, innocent brown eyes. I might vomit.

The Mayor introduces us and two small girls bring us each a bouquet overflowing with flowers. I clutch the stems and try to keep my hands from shaking. Peeta steps to the microphone and recites the speech he's memorized from Effie's card. It makes me sick. It's all about honor and glory for the Capitol, but part way through his words fumble, and he looks at the cards before his gaze wanders and locks on Rue's mother.

"Thresh and Rue couldn't have been more different from one another. I think Thresh could have accidentally stepped on her if he wasn't careful." Some people in audience chuckle quietly. "Of course, we all know Rue didn't spend much time under anyone's feet. Her gift was in the air." Some smile. "But the one thing they did have in common was that they both saved Katniss's life. And that's a debt I'll…" Peeta takes my hand, playing his part even if he doesn't know it, "we'll never be able to repay. So in honor of your fallen tributes, Katniss and I would each like to donate one month of our winnings to their families, every year, for the rest of our lives." A hush falls over the audience, then murmurs. In this moment, I am proud to have my hand locked in Peeta's. When I perch on my tiptoes and kiss him softly, it's not an act. I mean it.

The Mayor presents us with a plaque, and the audience begins to file out when I see Rue's sister. She's tiny, maybe eight or nine. But she looks just like her and it takes my breath away. My words suddenly find their way. "Wait!" I cry out, and the audience stills and looks back to me. "Wait!" Great, I've got their attention. Now what? But before my mind catches up words start pouring from my mouth.

 _"I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven," I say. I look at the pair of women on Thresh's side. "I only ever spoke to Thresh one time. Just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn't know him, but I always respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the Games on anyone's terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn't do it. I respected him for that." For the first time the old hunched woman raises her head and the trace of a smile plays on her lips. The crowd has fallen silent now, so silent that I wonder how they manage it. They must all be holding their breath. I turn to Rue's family. "But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she'll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim." My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. "Thank you for your children." I raise my chin to address the crowd. "And thank you all for the bread."_

I finish and the audience is silent. I feel small. I feel tattered. I feel bare and heartbroken. But I think everyone feels that way, just a little. That's when I hear it. The four note song. The one that says the workday is over. Rue's song. My eyes follow the song to a frail old man in overalls. Our eyes lock, and he stands straight, his back tall. He presses three fingers to his lips, and raises them in the air. In unison, thousands of 11's citizens join him. One graceful, swift movement. I know I should be scared. This is the exact opposite of what I was supposed to do. I've elicited an act of defiance. But in this moment, I don't care. I keep my eyes locked with his. I press my fingers to my lips, and raise them in the air. It means thanks for sending me the bread. For ignoring the invisible lines the Capitol has drawn between us, and seeing me as human instead of just a tribute. It means admiration, for their courage then and their courage now. Admiration for every tribute that manages to hang on to themselves in the Arena, even if it costs them their life. It means good-bye to a brave little girl that died in my arms. I feel Peeta's eyes on me, and he steps beside me. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, and raises them in the air.

Peacekeepers emerge and pull us forcefully back to the Justice Hall. I keep my eyes glued to the old man, and he keeps his eyes on me. I see his frail body aggressively pulled to the stage, surrounded by white uniforms. I see him forced to his knees. I know what's about to happen, but I keep my eyes with his. So he doesn't have to look at them. So I'm the last thing he sees. I keep my face controlled, still. He doesn't need to see me cry. He needs to see me strong and defiant. And just before shoving us inside, they send a bullet into his head. His body crumbles to the ground, a pool of crimson staining the white boots of the soldiers, and I lose the scene to the closed door.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. What have I done?

The Peacekeepers continue shoving us toward our team, and finally Peeta has had enough as he shoves one of the guards away from me. "Enough, okay? We get it. We're going." They take a step back and he loops his hand in mine and leads me over to the far end of the room.

"What happened?" Effie cries out. "We barely saw the end of the Katniss's lovely tribute before the television went out. And Haymitch said he thought he heard gunfire, which is frankly absurd…"

Peeta cuts her off before we can go on. "It was nothing, Effie." Two more shots ring out from behind the door, and her eyes bulge. I think I'm going to be sick. Who are they executing now? Rue's little sister? The old woman from Thresh's family? I'm such a fool. I feel Cinna's hand on my back, but it's not doing any good.

Haymitch gestures for Peeta and I to follow him, and we slip away from our team, through a winding corridor and up the stairs. Everything around us is magnificent and forgotten, covered with a layer of dust, carpets worn, dyes faded. On our way, Haymitch tugs the microphones from our clothes and shoves them in a couch. Eventually we climb a ladder to a trapdoor, which leads us to the dome of the Justice Building. A muted light fills the archaic space. Clothes are draped over stored furniture and knick-knacks. This place has been dormant for years. Haymitch looks at us expectantly, and Peeta tells him what happened in the square.

"You what? You put your hands in the air?" Haymitch drags his hands across his face in exacerbation and turns directly to me. "You should know better. We have no idea what's happening back home."

"Gale," I breathe out. I knew my actions led to consequences in the square of 11, but what was happening back in 12? I feel Peeta's eyes drill into me.

"What are you two talking about?" he asks. I look desperately at Haymitch, but he shakes his head.

"It should come from you."

I confess. I tell Peeta everything – about Snow, about the unrest in the districts. About Gale. I tell him that everyone I love may be in jeopardy because of my stupid stunt with the berries. How I was supposed to use this tour to fix it all. Show everyone that I wasn't a rebel. That I acted out of love. "But instead, all I did today was get three people killed." I swallow the bile burning my throat. It's quiet for a moment as Peeta digests what I've said.

"Then… I made things worse too. By giving them the money. I…" A look of disgust overtakes his face, and he strikes out at a lamp. It flies across the room and shatters into tiny shards on the floor. "This has to stop now. These secrets. This game the two of you play. Like I'm not important enough to tell. Like I don't matter."

"It's not like that, Peeta," I say as I reach out to him, but he recoils away from me like I make him sick.

"It's exactly like that. It's not always all about you, Katniss! I have people I care about too! People that will be just as dead as yours…" He turns away. He can't even look at me, and instead directs his words at Haymitch. "I understood. In the Arena. I know you had to choose one of us. And I'm glad it was her. I wanted it to be her. But after everything we've been through, I don't even earn the truth from you now?"

"Look, kid," Haymitch starts, and Peeta puts up a hand to silence him.

"Don't. From here on out, it's all out in the open. There are no secrets between the three of us. Got it?"

"Got it," Haymitch says, and looks to me.

"Got it," I say, and swallow the lump in my throat.

He storms out of the room, and just as soon as I've rebuilt my friendship with Peeta, I've lost it. Haymitch and I don't talk, in the stuffy, dust-filled attic. I think back to the Games. The parachutes. The burn cream. Gifts for me while Peeta was drifting toward death in a riverbank.

"Did you choose me, Haymitch?" I ask after a while.

"Yeah," he nods, and starts toward the exit. My mouth tastes bitter. "If we survive this, you'll see the choices you'll have to make. You'll learn."

I don't want to learn. That's when it really sinks in. Haymitch doesn't drink just to bury the Games he survived at sixteen. He drinks to bury all of it. Every child he's failed to save. How will I do that? How will I stand on stage at every Reaping? Watch children sentenced to death? Get to know them, encourage them, comfort them… and ultimately fail? How will I look their parents in the eye when I come home? How will I look in the mirror? It never ends. Once your name is pulled from the reaping bowl, you are either dead in a few days, or dead for the rest of your life.

I finally join everyone back downstairs, but Effie is pushing us to the train.

"What about the dinner?" I ask.

"It's been cancelled due to weather," she insists, and I look up at the bright, cloudless sky. Snow is not pleased.


	4. 11 to 10

The culinary team on the train had not planned to make us dinner tonight, and they shower us in apologies as they serve a decadent meal they "threw together last minute." Nobody really eats. Even with our unspoken rule to shield Effie from the hard parts, she's intuitive enough to understand something is wrong. It's been a long day, and everyone retires early. I leave the dining car, but I don't go back to my compartment. I wander the halls.

The train is pushing west. Effie told me District 10 will take a couple days to reach. Looking out the windows for too long makes me dizzy, and it's getting dark anyway. I find a room with a television and plush sofa. I slip off my shoes and curl against the satin couch. I think about home. What I've done. I wonder if Prim is okay. Snow wouldn't hurt her now. It would bring me too much sympathy. Gale, I'm not so sure…

When I hear uneven footfalls behind me, I know it's Peeta without having to turn around. Guilt festers in my stomach like an unwelcome parasite. I know I deserved what he said earlier. I'm not going to defend myself. Instead, I just keep my eyes glued to my hands. Peeta crosses across the room and sits next to me on the couch. I see his fingers glide across the smooth fabric.

"I think this couch is worth more than my whole house," he jokes, and I laugh. It feels weird, but when I earn half a smile from Peeta, the awkwardness fades. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," he says softly.

"You don't have to be sorry, Peeta," I reply, but he cuts me off.

"It isn't like I haven't kept things from you in the past. I just..." His voice softens and there's an edge of vulnerability that makes my chest ache. "I need to be able to trust you, Katniss." He's right. I haven't earned that from him, even though I trust him completely. My eyes drop to his hands and I reach for them. He slides away from me and sits up straight. "Look, there's just no point to it anymore. Not being straight with each other? I mean, we're in this together, aren't we?" His eyes meet mine from under his straw hair. He's looking for a promise.

"We are in this together. No more lying. Or omitting the truth. From either of us," I commit.

"Agreed," he says, and I can see relief spread across his face. Peeta clears his throat and starts to rise to his feet. "Good." He pulls himself up from the couch and disappointment takes residence in my chest. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts right now. Peeta turns and walks to the doorway, but lingers at the exit. "Katniss?" I swivel to face him, but his back remains to me. "Was that the only time you kissed Gale? Not that you couldn't, or…" He trips over his words. "Was that the only time?"

My mouth is dry. "Yes. That was the only time," I say with a mix of impassivity and discomfort. He nods his head and leaves.

The night is no better than the first, and when dawn breaks I realize I never even went back to my compartment. I go now, throw some water on my face, change my clothes. I haven't slept since we left 12, and my mind feels jagged and awry. My thoughts misalign, my words invert and escape. While yesterday I couldn't stomach anything, today my insides churn with hunger and my mouth salivates when I enter the dining car. My foot catches on the carpet, and I steady myself, earning a wary eye from Haymitch. I pile my plate high with tarts, berries, and cakes. A puff pastry melts on my tongue and fills my mouth with lemon. For a minute I stop worrying. I forget about Prim, and home, and Gale, and instead I think about how lemon juice makes my teeth feel fuzzy.

Effie spends the late morning reviewing the upcoming schedule. We will arrive in District 10 in the late evening and sleep on the train. Festivities will begin promptly in the morning. The outer districts are all pretty boring and monotonous. Wake up. Get dressed. Ride through cheering crowds. Listen to a speech in our honor. Give the Capitol-approved thank-you speech in return. Maybe a brief tour. Dress in evening clothes. Attend dinner. Train.

"Ahem!" I hear Effie clear her throat and realize I've dozed off. Sort of. I force my eyes open, but she just waves her hands, dismissing me from the room.

"I'm sorry, Effie," I offer, but I can tell I've mortally wounded her pride. It's one thing when I'm irritable or aloof. It's another when she thinks she's bored me to sleep.

"Hey," Peeta jogs a little and catches up with me down the hall. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired," I reply, feeling a burning behind my eyes. I didn't sleep much before the Tour either, but this the third day straight and I'm starting to feel the effects.

"Why don't you go lay down, and I'll come get you for dinner?" he suggests. I nod in agreement. Peeta walks me to my compartment and loiters at the door as I settle on to the bed. I feel my heart thud with his eyes on me. Peeta crosses to my bathroom, fills a glass with water, and leaves it on my nightstand. "Night," he whispers as he closes the door behind him.

I stare at the walls. My mind wanders. I'm not going to sleep, I can already tell. Instead my thoughts churn as I try to calm the thud pounding in my chest. I think about Peeta. If anything, I'm even more confused now than I was after the Games. Time and distance have not made things clearer, and neither has our newfound proximity. I have never wanted to be in love. To marry. To have kids. All that offers me are things I can lose. I saw what happened to my mother when my father died. I can't love someone that much. I refuse to be that vulnerable. If anything, our time in the Games has reinforced that. The thought of losing Peeta, even though we'd just met, even though we hadn't built a life together like my parents… just the idea of losing him had me risking my own life. I promised Prim I'd try to win, but I put that in jeopardy because I couldn't let Peeta die.

I know I feel something more than friendship for Peeta, but I don't think there's a word for it. I'm not in love with him. But there's a bond forged between two people when they experience something traumatic together. When you put your life in another person's hands, and take theirs in yours. When you cede control in favor of companionship. I know I don't want to be without him. I just don't know what that means.

And then there is Gale. Steadfast. My best friend. He knows me better than anyone else. Knew me better. The Games changed me. I'm not sure anyone knows me anymore. I don't think I know me.

This is stupid to think about. The whole country is on the verge of chaos and I'm thinking about love? I'm disgusted with myself. Instead I repeat the speech the Capitol had us memorize over and over again to myself, convinced the monotonous words will lull me to sleep. Instead, they only make me angry. They feel acidic in my mouth, and I want to spit them out and stomp them into the floor.

Finally, just lay there and close my eyes. Sleep has to come. It feels a little silly, but I focus on my breath and let myself sink into the bed. I don't hear the soft rap of knuckles on the door. I don't hear Peeta quietly slip in. I feel myself drifting when his voice slopes into my mind. "Hey," he whispers gently. "Did you sleep?" I open my eyes to find his fixed on mine, sky blue and steady.

I prop myself onto my elbows and pitifully avoid his gaze.

"Okay. Well, let's go eat some dinner, and then I'm making sure you sleep." I nod gratefully and pull myself out of bed. Dinner is a blur. I have a hard time focusing on anything and my head is starting to pound with a relentless, dull thump. I hear Portia and Peeta laughing, and try to focus on her. Her nails are sharp, her bangs are blunt, but those physical attributes contrast with her warm personality. I don't talk to Portia a lot, but I can tell she provides Peeta the same calming presence I get from Cinna. She catches me watching her and smiles warmly, but I pull my eyes back to my dinner plate and pretend to be interested in the fingerling potatoes.

It feels like the adults are rambling forever, long after dessert is cleared and cocktails emptied. I stare desperately at Peeta, who promptly dismisses us from the table. He takes my hand and leads me down one of the halls. My feet feel like lead. I find us in the lounge. "Stay here for a second," Peeta asks as I collapse on the sofa. I drop my head to the armrest, but when I close my eyes they burn, and I force them open again. After a while Peeta comes back in, a steaming mug in each hand. "Here," he says, as he hands me one.

The tea smells of lavender and honey, and maybe a hint of chamomile. It smells like home.

"Prim brought me a cup of this one night, back home," he says as he sips the hot tea.

"Prim did?" I ask.

"Yeah," he smiles. "We were talking about my paintings, and I told her I wasn't sleeping, and the next night around dusk she showed up with this. It was the first time I slept through the night since I'd left the Arena." He looks quiet and wistful. "I don't have a sister of my own. It's kind of nice."

"Yeah," I reply, my eyes distant. "It is nice."

Peeta talks to me for a while, and I listen to the soothing tone of his voice. I sip my tea and think of home. My body relaxes. I forget about Snow's threat, about the Tour, about everything. I listen to his mellow timbre, soft and quiet. His sentences blend together until they aren't words anymore, but more like a spoken lullaby uttered lightly in the night air. My breathing steadies, my eyes fall closed. I lay my head in his lap, he runs his fingers through my hair, like he did in the cave. I feel safe.

Hours later I wake up as the train brakes slowly. Peeta is still sleeping, he head resting on a hand that's curled under his cheek. When I wake him, a pink impression of his palm lingers on his face. He stretches his arms and neck.

"We must be in Ten," he yawns, and walks to the window. He peers out into the darkness, but he's not able to see much. Even though it's early morning, maybe two or three, the sky is still opaque with night. "I'll walk you back to your room," Peeta offers. I want him to come back to the couch. I want to curl into him, to rest my head on his chest and sleep, but I know that's selfish of me. He'll get the wrong idea. I spend the rest of the night alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling.


	5. District 10

Like District 11, District 10 is an agricultural center. The residents of 10 raise livestock, primarily for meat, but also different fowl for eggs and cows and goats for milk and cheese. The train station itself has a noxious smell in the air, and I notice cars of manure being loaded to a train pointed in the opposite direction of ours – presumably back to District 11.

I don't remember much about the tributes from this district. The girl evades me altogether. I know she was killed in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, but I can't seem to remember her in the Training Center. I focus and try to think of her interview with Caesar, but the closer I got to my interview, the more my nerves railed and I stopped paying attention to everyone else altogether. The boy I remember being shy and quiet. He had a bum leg, and I was surprised he lasted as long as he did. I saw Cato kill him in the recap, but I don't remember it in the Arena as I was in a venom-induced sleep. How am I supposed to honor their tributes when I can't even remember their faces? Names?

After we are prepped and dressed, Peeta and I are lead to the Justice Center. The crowd here feels different than 11. Weary. Defeated. They remind me of 12. We all know why we are here. There are no disillusions between us. I cling to Peeta's hand as we give the Capitol-approved speeches. I learn the boy's name was Dillon. I find his mother's eyes and tell her how brave he was to survive as long as he did. How he was never hostile or cruel. I don't know much, but I know he didn't kill anyone. Peeta squeezes my hand tight. This is our cue to one another to kiss. It's rehearsed, repeated. It should feel sterile, but instead when his soft lips meet mine, I find comfort in them. It only lasts a second, it's not romantic. We share sadness in a moment of brevity. The ceremony concludes. I squeeze his hand and we kiss again before we wave and leave. Peeta came up with this system. He's trying to make this as mechanical as possible, to protect his heart.

That afternoon we get a short tour of one of the slaughterhouses. Effie is white as a sheet of paper. One of her heels lands in a cow patty, and she shrieks and flees from the building. I laugh, but on a whole I think the slaughterhouse is disgusting. I'm not opposed to eating meat. I kill animals practically every day. But there is a difference between hunting and providing, and the factory-like conditions of 11. These animals don't ever know freedom. They are fed until they are fat and then slaughtered for pleasure. No one in the Capitol is starving. You shouldn't make a production line of living things, but it appears the Capitol can. I can't help but feel like all the districts are part of some Capitol assembly line. That we are all pieces in their formula for gluttony and power. But if just one piece of that assembly line broke... stopped working... didn't cooperate…. The whole operation would crumble.

That is what Snow is afraid of.

We head back to the train, and I stand in the shower for as long as my prep team will let me. I try to wash off the stench, the grime. I try to wipe away the dead look in the eyes of the parents, hoisted up on a platform and put on display for everyone to pity. No one wants to be pitied. I'm so tired, and I let my muscles ease at the steam of the hot water. I slept a few hours with Peeta last night, but four hours in as many days is not nearly enough.

My prep team is excited about dinner. In the Capitol, they are hardly ever important enough to receive invitations to notable parties, but here in the districts they feel like celebrities. I don't even pay attention to what they are doing until I catch my reflection in a mirror. A pale rose-colored strapless dress runs to the floor. My hair is pulled back from my face and showering down my back in soft ringlets. Cinna steps behind me and makes eye contact with me in the mirror, placing a hand on my shoulder. His warm smile puts me at ease.

"Like it?" he asks.

"It's stunning, Cinna. Really," I smile back. He arranges a shimmering silver wrap around my shoulders and kisses my hair.

"You do all the work, Girl on Fire," he whispers.

Effie arranges our procession to the dinner. The prep teams enter first, followed by the escort. "That's me!" she chimes. Cinna and Portia will be next, followed by Haymitch, and finally Peeta and me. We stand at the top of a large, swirling staircase and watch as our team enters the hall to polite applause. When Haymitch steps on the first stair, I start counting, waiting for him to reach the fifteen-step lead instructed by Effie.

"You look really beautiful tonight, Katniss," Peeta whispers, keeping his eyes glued to Haymitch's back. It takes me a little by surprise, and I lose count. I assumed he wasn't really looking at me anymore.

"Thanks," I sputter out.

"That's fifteen. Let's do it," he says. I plaster a dazzling smile to my face and we descend the stairs into the ballroom. At the ceremonies, we are supposed to be solemn and respectful, but at the dinners, Haymitch has instructed us to act deliriously in love. It feels weird, to say the least. In the Games, even though I was pretending, there was some level of truth to it. I wanted to keep Peeta alive. He was important to me. Here, knowing Peeta is not only fully aware but playing along, it feels more fake than it ever has. I feed him bites of food from my plate. He twirls my ringlets around his finger. I squeeze his hand and he kisses my neck. We don't act like us at all.

When dessert is finished a band begins to play. Peeta leans in and asks, "Do you want to dance?" I smile. As uncharacteristic as it is for me, I love to dance. Maybe I'm indifferent, and cold, and not very forthcoming, but for some reason, music makes me want to move. Normally I dance at home with Prim. She always makes me dance the boy's part, so when Peeta first reaches for my hand I fumble a little with the execution. He smiles and pulls me to the dance floor. My dress sweeps and swirls around the room, and Peeta and I laugh. Peeta is interrupted time and again by one gentleman or another asking to cut in, but he just wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. "I almost lost her once, I'm not losing her again," he says in a friendly but dismissive sort of way. I'm grateful. The idea of some stranger with his hand on my back makes me shiver.

The music slows, and Peeta and I sway back and forth gently. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart pounding under his ribs. It's fast, but steady. I remember listening to his heart in the cave, feeling the comfort of knowing he was alive and there with me.

I pull my face up and look at Peeta. His blue eyes drop to mine and I let the world slip away from us for a moment. He reaches his hand up and rests his palm on my cheek. I don't know what I'm feeling, but I want this to move forward. He didn't squeeze my hand. This isn't part of the act. Peeta leans his face down and presses his mouth to mine. His lips are dry, and I give in. I let my mouth move against his. Our feet stop moving, and while the rest of the world dances around us, we stand still, kissing each other in the middle of a crowded room as if there is no one here but us. That's when I catch the camera zooming in close to our faces. Peeta is clearly aware it's there and dips me lower. A pit in my stomach opens up. So this is what it feels like on the other side of a fake kiss. I feel like a fool.

The rest of the evening goes according to plan. We flirt, we kiss, we act ecstatically in love. But when the night comes to an end, I'm fuming. I feel embarrassed and stupid. I don't put myself out there like that. Our team enters the train first, with Peeta and me at the end. They retire to the lounge car, and Peeta looks to follow them until he sees me turn in the other direction and storm toward my room.

"Hey, Katniss, wait up!" he calls, but I keep up my furious pace until I reach the door to my compartment. "Hey," he says, concern etched across his face. "What's wrong?" I don't want to face him. I feel ridiculous. I just want to go to my bathroom and wash this outlandish make-up from my face.

"Nothing, I'm just tired," I spit out unconvincingly.

"Did I do something?" he asks.

"Are you kidding?" I writhe, spinning around. "There are rules, Peeta. You are supposed to squeeze my hand before you kiss me. Otherwise, things get… confused."

"Confused?" he asks. "I assumed all our kissing was fake." I stare at the floor. "Katniss?"

I don't answer him.

"Did you…" He tries to meet my gaze. "Did you think that kiss on the dance floor was real?" I don't say anything. "Did you want it to be?"

"No," I say abruptly. I shove the door to my room open and slam it behind me. I've made things so much worse. Peeta knocks quietly on the door.

"Katniss, can I come in?" I ignore him. "Katniss?" I shrug and pull the door open. I block the entrance with my body. Whatever he has to say to me, he can say it in the hall. I want this conversation to end. I want this night over.

"Just… follow the rules," I say, my voice sounding angry and defeated. I go to close my door again, but Peeta catches it with his hand. I look back up at him, and before I can say anything else he presses his mouth onto mine. It's passionate and feverish. He presses my body up against the door frame, places a hand on my lower back and pulls me into him. I can feel him there, present, alive. I know I shouldn't, but I kiss him back. I really kiss him. His mouth caresses mine. I feel his tongue stroke my bottom lip, and I open my mouth to let him in. He dips his tongue inside and my skin burns. I claw at his back to pull him into me. Closer. I need him closer. My tongue strokes his and heat pulses through my body. I've never done this before. We've never kissed like this before. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm getting carried away. "No!" I manage to whisper. I put my hands on his chest and push him away. "No," I say firmer, and close the door between us. I put my back against the inside and slide down the door, until I'm sitting on the floor. I feel his weight on the other side.

"In case you are wondering, every kiss from me is real," he says through the door.

The train carries us away from District 10.


	6. 10 to 9

"Yesterday was perfect, kids," Haymitch says as he stuffs a waffle into his mouth. Peeta and I nod to acknowledge we heard him, but we don't offer any more encouragement than that. We sit on opposite ends of the table, not looking at each other. Our team doesn't seem to notice.

"Oh, and that kiss on the dance floor was so romantic. Wait until you see the aerial footage! Everyone twirling and spinning around you, the two of you were as still as a statue. And the dip! Just to die for, really!" Effie exclaims.

I can't help but let her words ring through my head. To die for. To die for. I wonder what Prim is doing right now. Is she getting up to go to school? Is she safe? My mind is a mess. I try to eat, but my hand is shaking and I can't still my fork. I pick up a muffin and begin dissecting it with my fingers. I feel Cinna's eyes on me, the concern boring a hole in my skull. I put my napkin on my plate and excuse myself. My head thumps as I exit, and I hear everyone whispering.

"What's going on? I've had to take in every dress I've put on her," Cinna asks, worry heavy in his tone. Effie seems quite confused, as if she's oblivious to the whole situation.

"She's not sleeping," Peeta says, and I feel betrayal bubbling in my stomach. "She's only slept a few hours since the start of the tour."

"That's not possible, we've been on Tour nearly a week!" Effie exclaims.

"The kid's right. We'd know if she were sleeping. We'd all know," Haymitch says.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Effie prods. Portia and Cinna exchange quizzical glances, but Peeta and Haymitch lock eyes. I feel exposed and flee down the hall.

I'll just sleep now. Effie told us District 9 is well north of here, and we'll be on the train for a few days. I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling for a couple hours. I don't know how I'm supposed to sleep with the fate of the people I love on my hands. After what I did in 11, I can't stop worrying how I might have hurt them. Snow had to be pleased with 10, though. Haymitch is right, we were perfect. And the crowd was calm. I didn't feel rebellion lingering in the air. Nobody died. It's pretty bad when I view my days as successful or not based on whether I got anyone killed.

I miss Gale. I miss being out in the woods, the smell of the air. The quiet. The freedom. I miss home. Each day I'm on this train I feel more lost, more claustrophobic than before. My skin feels like it has a layer of sweat I can't wash off, and I shower excessively. I stay in my compartment the whole day, and sleep still doesn't come.

That night, I skip dinner. I'm not in the mood to be gawked at. I wasn't expecting to see anyone today, but Effie stops by.

"Katniss, dear, I know you've been having trouble sleeping." She tries to console me, but it comes off disingenuous in her clipped accent.

"I'm fine, Effie." I'm dismissive. I'm not happy they are all talking about me behind my back.

"I know, but I brought you these. They work like a charm for me." Effie hands me a bottle of tiny blue pulls, each no larger than a grain of rice. "They are really quite powerful. I'd only take one or two at the very most. Otherwise you'll sleep all the way to the Capitol!" She laughs, but I wouldn't mind missing this whole tour. "You don't have to take them if you don't want to, but I wanted to give you the option."

"Thanks," I say, and a slowly roll the bottle of pills between my fingertips. I watch the pills bounce around the inside, and it reminds me of the time I rolled down a hill in a tire, with Prim screaming the whole time. I smile at the memory, which Effie takes as gratitude. When she leaves I tuck them in a drawer and ignore them.

That night, I wander the halls. I know Peeta spends much of his evening wandering as well, so I try to stay out of his turf. I don't want to see him. Instead, I end up in front of Haymitch's room. I've been thinking a lot about him tonight. My feet must have subconsciously carried me here. I stop for a second, then knock lightly on his compartment door.

"Hey sweetheart," Haymitch says. He smells of liquor and starch. No doubt Effie trying to make him look presentable, but he sleeps in the same clothes he wakes in.

"Hey," I reply. "Can I talk to you?" He gives me a look asking if we need to stop the train, but I shake my head.

"Well, come on in," Haymitch says as he gestures to his room. I walk past him and am immediately overwhelmed by the smell. "Welcome to my humble abode," he slurs, sweeping his arm and doing the best impersonation of a host he can muster. I toss some bottles out of the way and clear and empty space on the small couch against one of the walls.

"Can I ask you a question? About your Games?"

Haymitch stills, then sits on the end of his bed. "One."

"Did you have a mentor? I mean, as long as I've been alive, you've been the only victor from our District. Were you…" My mouth feels suddenly dry. "Were you all alone in there?"

"Everyone is alone in there, Katniss," he replies.

"Did you have a mentor? Or any sponsors?" I push, even though I know I shouldn't.

"No, I didn't have a mentor. The only person from Twelve to win the Games before me died soon after. He never mentored anyone. My stylist was dull. My escort was a moron. The only person I had was one of the other tributes from my district, and obviously she died anyway." I feel my chest throb. I can't imagine going into the Arena without anyone on the outside. Haymitch managed to win totally alone. Against Careers. Against whatever twist they used in the last Quell. With no help.

"I've just been thinking a lot lately about being a mentor. About how to survive getting to know these kids, and losing them," I confess.

"Don't get to know them, for starters," Haymitch says, pulling another swig from his bottle. "I made that mistake." He looks out his compartment window into the dark night. "I once had a tribute that had a blanket. Like a toddler might carry around. It was tattered, maybe a foot square. She had it tucked under her dress during the Reaping. I caught her sleeping with it one night." He shakes his head and finishes the bottle in his hand. "Don't get to know them."

I wonder what it was like for Haymitch during his Games. After the Reaping, on the train into the Capitol, at the Tribute Center. Meals. Interview prep. All of it with no mentor. No one to tell him what was going on.

"Did you think you were going to die?" I ask quietly.

"Doesn't every tribute?" he retorts.

"How old were you?"

"Same as you. Sixteen." He sees the pain in my face. "You and I are similar, sweetheart. I may have only been sixteen, but I was the man of the house. I'd been taking care of my family for years." I didn't know this about him. Haymitch doesn't ever talk about his family. "My dad was fired from the mines after showing up to work drunk. The Capitol didn't care if that meant his family would probably starve to death. So I did what I had to do. I wasn't a child when I was reaped, and neither were you."

"Your mom must have been so scared when your name was called. How did you feed your family?" I try to picture Haymitch hunting or trapping in the woods, but I can't.

Haymitch takes another drag from his glass and swishes the alcohol through his teeth. "You're past your one question." I stare at the floor. He sighs and continues. "I was a cheat. I'd bully kids out of their school lunches and give them to my little brother. I'd steal and then make trades at the Hob with the goods. I swindled people. It was easy. No one expects to be cheated by a ten-year-old."

It makes sense. Haymitch has always been clever. No wonder he survived on his own in the Arena. He was already on his own.

His tone changes. "My dad used to hit my mom. He never touched me or my brother, but he'd beat her senseless," Haymitch says quietly, swirling the liquor around the bottom of the bottle. I knew this happened in 12. It didn't seem to make a difference if they were Seam or Merchant. There'd be a knock on our door in the middle of the night, and my mom would clean up another broken, sobbing woman. Desperation makes people do awful things to one another.

"But I got taller. Bigger. And finally, one day, when he raised his hand to my mom, I stepped in between them. I was ready to fight back, my fist balled in the air, but my dad was a coward. He was stared down by a 13-year-old boy, and he ran. I saw him around every once in a while - drunk in a corner of the Hob or rummaging through a dumpster. My mom resented me for it. She blamed me for him leaving. I lost both my parents that day." Haymitch picks at a piece of string on his pants. He fidgets. He looks vulnerable. He looks like a little boy again. "So I'd steal, she'd sell herself for some cash on the side, but no - my mother wasn't scared when my name was called. My mother hated me. But I had my little brother. I had to come home for him."

I don't ask any more questions. I know how this story ends. The Capitol killed them. His mom. His brother. His girl. Haymitch doesn't talk about it, and I don't know what he did to deserve it. But it reinforces that I need to get my act together on this Tour if I have any hope of keeping Prim alive. And Gale. And little Posy.

We don't talk anymore, but I don't leave. Haymitch offers me a drink, and I decline. Instead we just sit there, in silence, feeling the train hurdle us closer to 9.

Eventually I go back to my compartment. It's late. I watch the sunrise. The train pushes forward. I can't concentrate. I can't sleep. I doze in tiny intervals - seconds, maybe minutes. When I close my eyes, I see my sister being ripped from my arms. I eat a large breakfast, but I can't hold it down and throw most of it up in a trashcan. Effie and Cinna ask me to meet them to review more lines for my Talent Show, but I can't seem to remember names of the fabrics or what I'm supposed to say. Cinna walks me back to my room. He lays sprigs of lavender in my nightstand and dresses me in pajamas of the softest fabric I've ever felt against my skin. He drapes sheer fabrics over my lights and the room glows a soft green. I try to sleep. I see my house burn down, with Prim inside. I pull my knees into my body.

The next day I spend mostly wandering the halls and avoiding Peeta. I break into the kitchen and find a batch of freshly baked muffins. I steal the entire pan and devour them selfishly in my room. I remember there are people starving in 12, children gambling their lives for tesserae. I lick the granulated sugar from my fingers. I'm no better than the Capitol. Angry with myself, I hide the pan under my bed.

I just need to wait a few more hours. We'll be in 9 soon.


	7. District 9

The train rolls into 9 in the late morning. Like 11, District 9 is responsible for crop growth. Specifically, they grow and refine grain into flour. The golden fields are vast and the stalks of grain wave in the breeze like ripples on the surface of the lake. Unlike 11, people seem to be completely absent. Occasionally I catch someone operating a baler or plow. We pass a dozen or so mills, and a small area of homes. The residential area seems to be about the size of 12, maybe slightly larger, even though the geographic disparity is enormous. My mind tries to fathom how much work each laborer must be responsible for. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it was beautiful though. Unlike the flat surfaces in 11 and 10, 9 reminds me more of home, with its subtle hills and temperate climate. The air is colder here, and it feels easier to breathe. I never see any schools or shops. The Justice Building sits alone in a large, cobblestone square.

I head to the dining car. Effie tells us we'll eat breakfast, then be dismissed to get ready with our prep teams. The ceremonies will begin promptly at noon. There are no parades or tours here. She refers to 9 as a "simple" district. I don't think she means it to sound condescending, but it does. I make a bowl of oatmeal smothered with brown sugar and walnuts, but it sticks in my throat. Peeta makes me a coffee and sets it next to me on the table. I pretend it doesn't exist.

Nothing is out of the ordinary, but I feel on edge this morning. I'm distracted and clumsy. In my prep session, I accidentally knock over a tray of tools. I apologize, but Venia simply shushes me with a wave of her hand and collects the combs and brushes and gels. They don't talk as much today, almost as if they are being wary around me.

Octavia's brow furrows, and she concentrates on my eyes. I try to catch her gaze, but she's not looking at me, she's looking at my skin. I can see myself in the mirror. My eyes are gaunt, there are dark bags hanging beneath them and my whole tone is ashen. She turns to the table and begins mixing different concoctions until she twirls back to me with some muted gusto. "Here we go!" she says, and spreads the mixture under my eyes. The cream is cooling and I immediately feel relief from a pain I hadn't known existed. "You know, if you want to close your eyes for just a few minutes while we let this sink in, that would be just fine!" clucks Octavia, and I realize Effie has told them I'm not sleeping.

"Thanks," I say, grateful for the silence if nothing else. I close my eyes, though I know sleep is elusive. Instead, my mind focuses on the tributes from this district. The boy from 9 was the first person killed. I remember it vividly. I stopped to grab the backpack, and we struggled. Not fighting or trying to hurt each other, but we wrestled over the pack that meant the difference between life and death for one of us. I felt his grasp slacken, and he suddenly coughed and splattered blood all over my face. I still remember the feeling of it congealing on my skin - warm and sticky. He collapsed, Clove's knife sticking out of his back. I couldn't stop to say I'm sorry. I couldn't mourn or try help him. He was a child. He was murdered right in front of me. And I ran.

His blood got in my mouth and I remember spitting the irony taste on the forest floor.

I don't remember the girl. I know she didn't make it out of the bloodbath.

My prep team wipes the mixture from my face. My hair is dried and braided to the side. I'm dressed. I can feel Cinna's heart sinking as his nimble fingers quickly improvise a cinch in the waist of my skirt. I am eating, but only sporadically and most of it makes me sick. I eat nothing of value, I only crave sugar. I want to comfort him. Apologize. I don't know. I feel bad I'm hurting him, but I can't really do anything about it. We're late, and Cinna and I meet the rest of our team in the lobby of the Justice Building.

The ceremony is uneventful. We read the speeches. I repeat the words of the Capitol, and I catch the eye of a woman in the crowd. She is bitter. Quiet. Seething. This crowd isn't rebellious. They aren't dangerous. But they are feeling betrayed. They are disappointed in me. There is no spark here to fan, but I could have made one. Instead, I think of Prim and finish the speech. I praise the Games, the Capitol, the glory of Panem. The woman looks at me like I'm just another Capitol puppet. I guess I am.

The dinner is simple. There is a three-course meal, followed by a small concert. I try to act in love with Peeta, but there isn't the opportunity for us to do much of anything. The whole affair is over in a couple hours, and we are back on the train before night has completely fallen.

Haymitch, Effie, Portia, and Cinna all head to the lounge car to drink and discuss the events of the day. Haymitch gives me a nod, and I'm dismissed. I didn't keep track of where Peeta went. I only have one thing on my mind - sleep. It's been almost two weeks. The most I've slept is those few hours with Peeta on the sofa. I can't keep going like this. In my compartment, I strip off my evening wear and leave it on the floor of the bathroom. I forgo the silk pajamas for an old shirt from home. I crawl into bed and stare at my nightstand, almost as though I can see through the polished wood to the sleeping pills. I sit up and pull the drawer open. The round bottle clatters around the empty drawer, shaking like a cheap rattle. I open the bottle and drop a pill in my hand. I place the tiny capsule on my tongue, and it dissolves. It tastes sweet, like pure sugar, and it mixes with the minty flavor of my toothpaste. I lay my head back on the pillow, and my eyes drift closed.

My nightmare is not normal. I am fully aware, but my reality is surreal in an unsettling kind of way. I feel more like I'm hallucinating than I'm dreaming, but I can't seem to get my mind back into my body. Realities morph and shatter around me. Everywhere I look, I see Prim. Prim being reaped. Prim drowning in the bathtub at our house. Prim's head being shaved. Prim covered in filth. Prim's tongue being cut out. Prim with blood streaming from every orifice on her head - her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her ears. Prim choking on smoke. Prim naked in the snow. I can't get out of this. I can't help her. I can't wake up. I can't wake up.

I hear footsteps and my door open, and I am able to anchor myself to something from reality. My eyes shoot open, but I can't see. My throat burns and my lungs scream for air. I choke on my spit and gasp. Peeta is in my doorway, worry knotted on his brow.

"It was nothing. It was just a nightmare," I say through staggered breaths. I'm awake. I'm awake.

"I get them, too," he offers. I try to come down, but my chest hurts from my heart pounding so hard, and I can't get any air. "Are you okay?" he asks, starting to step forward but hesitating and staying in the door frame.

I nod my head and knot my fingers in my blanket.

"Okay. Well, good night." Peeta turns to go and in that moment I have more clarity than I've felt since Prim's name was called.

"Peeta?" My voice catches in my throat, and comes out hushed and fragile. He turns back to me and he meets my eyes. "Stay with me?"

Without a thought he crosses the room and crawls into my bed with me. He raises his arm and I pull my body into his, resting my head on his chest. He knots his fingers in my hair, stroking it slowly. My breathing slows and meets his. I listen to his heart thud in his chest - steady, here. Our legs tangle, I fist my hand in his shirt. It's intimate. It's safe.

As I feel myself drift away, he presses his mouth to my hair and whispers a promise.

"Always."

And I finally fall asleep.


	8. 9 to 8

When I wake the next day, it is clear Peeta has been up for a while, but hasn't moved from his place in my bed. The sun is bursting through my windows with a happy, yellow glow. It can't be morning. I keep my eyes closed and pretend I'm still sleeping. For just a moment, I want my life to be simple. I want to find comfort in being here with Peeta, and nothing more, but I've given myself away. Peeta whispers, "Morning."

"What time is it?" I ask as I pull myself up in bed. Peeta stretches. I wonder how many hours he's been awake, trying to remain perfectly still to let me sleep.

"I don't know. Effie knocked on your door a while ago, I'm assuming when we didn't come down for breakfast."

Heat flushes my face and a blush burns into my cheek. I don't want Effie to know Peeta was in here last night. I don't want anyone to know.

"Don't worry, I didn't say anything. She gave up pretty quick. I think she was just happy you finally might be sleeping," Peeta offers.

I fall back into the bed. Last night is a little blurry. I think Peeta woke me a few times, pulling me from medication-induced nightmares without other escape. I remember him waking me. Me crying into this chest. Him pulling my body tight against his, rubbing my back until no more sobs racked my frame. I remember my bare legs intertwined with his, and seeking relief in the feeling of his skin against mine. As if he can read my mind, he says, "Your last nightmare was around three. You've been sleeping really solid for a while now."

I feel it. I feel better. I have a clarity and focus I've been missing since the start of the tour. And I'm ravenous. "Can we get some food?" I ask.

"Um, yeah!" Peeta replies with some enthusiasm. I force myself out of bed, and I feel exposed with my bare legs lit in the sunlight. Peeta keeps his eyes trained on the far wall. It's kind of silly having modesty when just a few minutes ago it wasn't easy to distinguish where he ended and I began, but now he can feel me retreating and rebuilding walls. I try to keep the mood light. I don't want him to feel… used.

We head to the dining car. The clock on the wall says it's almost three. We've missed both breakfast and lunch. Peeta waves us down the hall and makes his way to the kitchen. I've snuck in here before at night and stolen food, but in the middle of the day the room is fully staffed. When Peeta enters, the chefs smile and greet him congenially. They converse, and I slowly realize that Peeta has been hanging out in the kitchen. They know him. He walks to the refrigerator without asking anyone and pulls out some meats, fruits, and cheeses. The head chef pleads with Peeta to let him cook for us, but Peeta is in no mood to inconvenience anyone because we slept in. He offers them a bright smile, and asks me to grab a couple plates from the cupboard. I still feel like I'm stealing, and I'm uncomfortable with the watchful eyes of the whole kitchen on me.

"Follow me, I think you'll like this," Peeta says to me with a smile as he looks back at me over his shoulder. We go through the back door of the kitchen, and enter a small, white room filled with natural sunlight. There are no windows I can see. Peeta sees the curious look on my face and points up. Light pours from a small circular opening in the ceiling.

"It's called a sun tunnel. It goes directly to the top of the train. The tunnel is full of mirrors, and they just continually reflect and refract the light until it pours down here. That's how they keep the plants alive," he says.

Lining the wall are tiny potted herbs and plants. A tomato plant hangs heavy with cherry-sized rubies. Peppers sprout, and the cinching vines of a cucumber plant climb up a metal shelf. There is thyme and basil and mint. The room smells like nature. With the sun and leaves, I almost feel like I'm outside. I must be smiling, because I see Peeta grin. "I knew you'd like it."

He plops on the floor and digs into the containers. He fills our plates with sharp cheese, strawberries, apples, and rare slices of beef. I eat my plate greedily while Peeta lazily chews on an apple and watches me.

"What?" I ask.

"You look better. Your color. Your eyes. They were getting kind of dull. You just look so much better," he says.

"I feel so much better," I reply. Peeta tugs a cucumber from its vine, pulls a knife from his pocket, and slices the cucumber into my glass of water. I drink it, the cool sensation flutters through my body.

"This reminds me a little of the picnicking in the woods," I say. He smiles. I don't think he knows my mind is racing back to Gale. After we finish eating, he clears the plates away and I lie on the white floor and let the sun wash over my body. Peeta sits next to me, careful to keep his distance, but I lay my head in his lap. He plays with my hair lazily, and I find myself drifting to sleep again, soothed by the feeling of sunlight on my skin and the scent of nature thick in the air.

One of the chefs, a fat man with an outrageous moustache, comes in to let us know they are preparing dinner. We get out of their way and head to the dining car. Effie is seated at the table, buried in her schedule. Portia and Haymitch are chatting at the drink cart.

"Katniss! Peeta! Wherever have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you!" Effie asks.

"Oh, I slept in," I confess, and Effie's aggravation evaporates into relief.

"Well, I can't fault you for that," she smiles at me, and then turns her eyes expectantly to Peeta.

"Oh, um. I was in the kitchen," he fumbles. Smart, though. Effie would never go in there, and it's not exactly untruthful.

"The kitchen? Peeta! You mustn't mingle with the help. They are here to serve you. Really, quite poor form!" she chastises him. Sometimes Effie can be so numb. In District 12, Peeta spends all his time in a kitchen. He is the help. He's more at home there than anywhere.

Dinner is served, and Cinna rushes in late, a pincushion still strapped to his wrist. He eyes me as I eat the squash soup with roasted pumpkin seeds, and I see him smile slightly. He takes a seat next to Portia and they start chatting about some changes he made to my collection. Despite our circumstances – the tour, the death threats – this one moment between us feels almost normal.

After dinner, Portia rushes away to help Cinna with his new idea. Effie is working through the schedule with Haymitch, who catches my eye and desperately pleads for me to save him. I just smile and excuse myself. Peeta follows close behind.

"So… you hang out in the kitchen?" I ask Peeta as we stroll down one of the corridors with no particular destination.

"Yeah. Do you have a problem with that, too?" he asks.

"No," I offer, and then more firmly assert, "No. It's just that sometimes I forget some of the people from the Capitol are… real."

"The whole class system drives me insane. Merchant versus Seam…"

"Easy for you to say, you're Merchant." As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I regret it. I know life has not been kind to Peeta. I always assumed a baker's son would never go hungry, but his family barely made it by. There is a special kind of torture of starving in a house full of food. I think he knows I didn't mean what I said though, because the harsh look on his face softens when he meets my eyes.

"All of it. Even in the Capitol. Doesn't it bother you that our prep team doesn't eat with us? That we only ever see them to get ready? Where do they even sleep?" he asks.

Huh. I'd never really thought about it.

"It's just another way to keep us divided," he says. I'm starting to feel uncomfortable. The train is bugged. I don't want Snow hearing Peeta talk like this. I change the topic, and we keep strolling. The more the day goes on, the more awkward I begin to feel about things. Peeta can sense it, and starts to pull away. He's not going to force me into something, but it makes my stomach hurt when he says goodnight and leaves me at my door.

My compartment feels strangely empty. I crawl in bed and drift to sleep quickly, but the horrors from last night only appear more vivid now. It's always Prim, everywhere. Without the drugs I'm able to pull myself awake, and I find myself screaming and sweating in bed. My sheets are drenched and my throat is raw and hoarse. I can't seem to find my bearings until I see Peeta at my door. I should tell him to leave. I should not do this.

I hear more feet in the hallway, and Peeta turns away from me. Worried whispers float outside my door, but can't make out any words. I hear three distinct tones, and I realize it's my prep team. "She's fine," I hear Peeta console them. Finally, the feet retreat, and Peeta turns back to me.

"Do you want me to go?" he asks.

"No," I whisper.


	9. District 8

District 8, fittingly enough, is where I am to do what Cinna has come to refer to as my "fashion show." District 8 is responsible for the manufacturing of textiles, so the Capitol thought it would send a unifying message. I will do a segment where I show off different pieces from the collection, and then they will cut the cameras back to the Capitol, where some of the outfits have been shipped in advance for a runway display. Effie says it is the event of the season. She is a bit morose about not being there, but I reminder her how important she is to the segment in 8. She blushes and resumes penciling in VIPs to meet Cinna and me.

When the train pulls into the station, Peeta and I sneak a glimpse out one of the windows. I can tell it is cold without having to be outside. The scenery is gray, and the ground is littered with dirty snow. They are clearly in winter like we are in 12, although almost a month has passed and it should be coming to an end soon. In front of the Justice Building, construction crews seem to be breaking down structures that formerly filled the square. I think I see what appear to be shackles wrapped around a thick post, and I give Peeta a troubled look. Rue had talked to me some about public punishment for stealing in 11, but this looks barbaric.

The district as a whole is industrial looking. There are large factories and buildings everywhere. The smell of machinery permeates the air, and any sign of life is restricted to the worn citizens trudging between buildings. There are no plants or trees. Not even a blade of grass. I think I would die here.

Peeta looks sick. I know why. The girl from District 8.

Peeta killed her. She was the only person he directly killed in the Games, and even though it was out of mercy, he will never forgive himself. She was stupid. She got herself killed. She forced Peeta's hand. I tried to tell him that last night, when he woke up frozen and hyperventilating. He didn't agree.

I remember watching the recaps on stage, while Peeta picked at his thumbnail and kept his eyes away from the screen. Much of the detail I already knew from the Arena. In the bitter cold of the first nightfall, she lit a fire. Anyone with common sense would know the Careers would be out hunting, but she didn't deserve what they did to her. They taunted her. They laughed in her face. They tossed her between them, her body limp like a ragdoll. She begged for her life and was met with mockery. When they got bored, Cato and Glimmer stabbed her brutally and left her to die. But she didn't. She laid there bleeding next to the fire. She cried for her mom. She was just a child.

The cannon didn't fire, and Peeta went back to finish the job. He had to prove himself to the Careers. To protect me. There was nothing he could do to save her. The injury would take her eventually. She would suffer and drown in her own blood. It would take hours of agony. He sat next to her and held her hand. He told her about how she'd be safe, when the pain was gone, she'd be safe. He asked her if she wanted him to take away the pain, and she said yes. He held her hand, and placed the other over her nose and mouth. He whispered, "Are you sure?" and she nodded yes. He pressed down, and she struggled against him. He kept his eyes on her the whole time. He wasn't going to let her go alone. Her body finally fell limp, and the cannon fired. Peeta vomited in the grass by the fire.

I don't remember the boy. He didn't survive more than a few minutes after the last gong.

Peeta and I are prepped for the ceremony. When we meet in the Justice Building, his hands are shaking. I take one in mine and squeeze it tight. He offers me a weak smile, but keeps his eyes glued to the closed door separating us from the stage. His lips keep mouthing the words from the Capitol-approved speech that he's had memorized for months. The card is in his pocket in case he needs it.

"You don't have to do any talking," I whisper to him. "I can do it."

"No, I can do it. I need… I need to apologize," he says. We aren't supposed to say more than a couple words to the grieving families, if anything at all. We are supposed to stick to script. But I know Peeta has a chance to heal today.

"Okay," I reply. The doors to the stage open and Peeta and I come out. The crowd is wild. Elated to the point of near frenzy. They are screaming and chanting my name - but it sounds more like a war cry than cheering. The faces are smiling and screaming, but I can see it. Underneath boils fury. They are happy to see me, but for all the wrong reasons. And in this moment, I'm terrified for my sister. How am I supposed to be able to extinguish this? How am I going to keep her alive?

It takes the Mayor a while to calm the crowd. When we finally do start speaking, I can still feel the resistance tingling in the air like electricity before a thunderstorm. They don't care if what I say is Capitol-compliant nonsense. I'm here. I defied them and I'm here. I'm the face of mutiny.

I don't think Peeta is with it enough to perceive the revolutionary undertow of the people. He only has eyes for the female tribute's mother. Violet. Her daughter's name was Violet.

"We all have to make impossible choices. Impossible sacrifices that will forever impact who we are as human beings. I had to choose someone in there. I chose Katniss. And to choose Katniss, I also made a choice to allow what they did to your daughter to happen. Her death, and the moments leading up to it, didn't need to be so cruel. Didn't need to be so vicious. I am truly sorry for what I did in there. For surviving, when she didn't. I will think of your daughter every day of my life. I will think about how she held my hand until she couldn't. How she met my eyes until she couldn't. I hope someday I can be as brave as she was, but in that moment - I couldn't. I will forever remember her crying for you. She loved you so much, and you aren't wrong to be angry. Her death was violent and awful. And it was unnecessary. Violet kept her dignity until she died, but standing here in front of you - I have no dignity at all. There was nothing brave or kind about what I did. It was the least anyone decent could have done. I gave her the least she deserved. And she deserved so much more than that. All I was able to do was not let her die alone. If we take anything from this, let it be that. That none of us are ever alone. We are not the lowest denominator of ourselves. We are parents. Children. Friends. Lovers. We are human beings. So even if she isn't here with you now, we are all here with you. In this moment, we are all Violet." He puts his hand on his chest, over his heart. "I am so, so sorry."

The crowd is entranced by Peeta's words. He acknowledged the horror of the Games. He called her death unnecessary and cruel. He called out the Capitol. From her platform, Violet's mother places her hand on her heart, and never breaking eye contact with Peeta, mouths, "It's okay." I feel him tremble next to me. Tears burn his blue eyes but he blinks them away and lifts his chin. With forgiveness comes dignity.

We are in trouble.

The ceremony ends and we are rushed inside. Unlike 11, there are no public displays of dissent, but we've fanned an already fiery spark. What will Snow do? Will he kill my sister? Or Gale? Will there be an "accident" at the bakery? My mind won't stop racing. I know why he did what he did, but I can't even look at Peeta right now. I'm almost grateful we have to do the fashion show. I can get away from him, and try to do some damage control. When I meet eyes with Haymitch I know he's thinking the same thing.

Peeta and I separate. He heads to his room and I meet my prep team and Cinna. The pieces being shown off have already been brought inside the Justice Building. Cinna and I run my lines. We practice. Silhouette. Cap sleeves. Knife pleat. Herringbone. Satin. He smiles encouragingly when I get all the answers right. I've been working on it. I'm not going to make him look like a fool.

My makeup is more striking. Cinna says it's a high fashion event, there's nothing he can do. At least I still look like me. I don't have any wigs or feathers popping out of unexpected places. When the cameras finally fall on me, Cinna squeezes my hand. "You can do this."

The red light illuminates and I'm on. I show off each of the pieces. I remember everything he told me. Not blue - cornflower. Not shiny - iridescent. Not tight - fitted. Cinna smiles and nods off camera. I try to improv some of what Haymitch has fed me. How I could never pursue my dream of fashion without winning the Games. I go on and on about the generosity of the Capitol. I gush about Peeta, whenever and wherever possible. We are so in love I can't go more than a minute or two without saying his name. I feel helpless up here. Exposed. I know it's not enough, and I can sense it. I try to focus on the next garment, but instead I see Posy. I see her lifeless body on the floor of Gale's home. I hear Hazel screaming, tears streaking down her cheeks. Posy would be easy to kill and not have it be readily obvious to Panem that it was targeted at me. I feel the tears welling, a persistent lump in my throat, and I know the cameras are zooming in on this moment of anguish. Instead, I quickly bat my eyes and smile like a silly girl. "Oh, I'm sorry. I remember trying this dress on for Peeta. He said I looked breathtaking." I run my fingers under each eye, wiping the tears. "I'm sorry, even being away from him for a few minutes of time is agonizing." I hear Effie sigh off camera, and I know that played well. Haymitch gives me a thumbs up.

We wrap up the segment. One of the more exquisite evening dresses is removed from the rack and I'm dressed for the dinner. The dress is strapless and hangs off my shoulders. The back drops low. "I'm going to freeze in this," I complain, and Cinna gives me a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sure you'll figure out a way to keep warm," he winks, and in that moment, I realize Cinna knows. Haymitch told him. As much as I hate putting him in added danger, it feels good to have another friend on my side. When I look in the mirror, I see a woman staring back at me. I don't look like a child in this. I'm not a girl. I look ravishing. I meet Peeta in the lobby, and his eyes are all over me. When he finally meets my gaze, his face flushes.

"I'm sorry. You just… you look…" The wordsmith has lost his words.

He keeps his eyes locked on mine until I say, "No, it's good. Keep looking at me like that. People will love it."

The dinner flies by. Peeta and I barely get through our meals between all the kissing and whispering to one another. We have amped things up. We remain connected. A unit. My hand is on his leg, his fingers ghost my waist. We dance until they have to drag us from the floor. We get caught trying to sneak off alone. Peeta is all over me tonight. I think he knows we messed up. We both know what's at stake.

When the evening comes to a close I'm starting to feel better. I'm not sure we did enough, but we must have counteracted some of this morning. Our team heads to the train, but Peeta and I linger behind, trying to appear as if we can't bear for the evening to end. The dance floor empties, and we stay for one last song. We kiss and sway as a few stragglers from the party look on.

We finally leave the Justice Building and make our way back to the train. Peeta and I hold hands as we walk down the platform.

"I'm sorry," he starts to say, but I hold up my hand and cut him off. My hunter's senses are on edge. Something is not right. Peeta is wary of my shift in behavior, and we both turn around in time to witness the ambush. A dozen Peacekeepers descend upon us, ripping us apart. I trying to cling to Peeta's hand but it's useless. Two armed men hold me back as I thrash and bite and claw helplessly at their arms. The other ten surround Peeta and throw him to the ground.

"NOOO!" I scream and they stuff a piece of fabric in my mouth. It's dirty and tastes like fuel. Peeta pushes to his feet when the first blow hits his stomach. He doubles over, and stands again, keeping his chin up. A Peacekeeper with a baton smashes the back of his legs, and Peeta collapses and cries out in pain. I'm screaming his name into the fabric, but there is nothing I can do to help him. We are outnumbered and without weapons. The beating continues. They kick his stomach, legs, and back until he can't stand. I hear a crack and I'm certain one of his ribs has broken. The head Peacekeeper reaches down and lifts Peeta's head by his hair until they are face to face, ready to tell him something. Instead, Peeta spits a mouthful of blood into his face. The punishment resumes with heightened cruelty. Peeta screams until his voice gives out, and finally he loses consciousness. They leave his tattered body under the glow of a streetlamp, light pouring over him in the pitch black night. The leader drops a white rose on his chest.

"President Snow sends his regards," he spits out, and I'm finally released.

I rush over to Peeta. The guards leave, and I'm screaming and crying in the spotlight.


	10. District 8 Train Station

When I hear feet slamming into the platform I am immediately defensive. I spin around to face the attacker, placing myself between him and Peeta. The man approaching does not come across as hostile, but I can't trust anyone at this point. He looks vaguely familiar. His skin is dark and as he rushes to us, I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Is he breathing?" the man asks when he is close enough to whisper. He drops to his knees, his concerned eyes surveying Peeta's body.

"Barely," I choke out. The man raises his fingers to Peeta's throat, resting them gently under his jawbone.

"His pulse is weak. Breathing is thready. We need to get him inside. Run, go get Haymitch." He gestures to the train as if to point, but his limb comes to a stump partway down his forearm. I don't know who he is, but I know he's one of us. A victor. I push myself up and run to the train. I throw the door open and storm past the attendant. I bolt to the bar, certain I'll find at least Haymitch there. When I burst inside, the whole team is sitting around a table, sipping cocktails. Their eyes lift to me and they immediately know something is wrong. My dress is torn and hanging from my body. My hands and torso are covered in Peeta's blood. The heel on one of my shoes is broken and my entire stance is off-kilter.

"Peeta," I gasp out, my lungs burning. They are immediately on their feet and follow me out of the train. The frigid night air envelopes us as we run down the platform. Effie throws off her shoes to keep pace. I reach Peeta first, dropping down to him. "I'm here, I'm here," I say as I run my fingers through his hair. His body is cold, and I can't tell if it's from lying in the night or something more foreboding. I push that thought from my mind.

"Chaff," Haymitch says as he reaches out a hand and pats the dark-skinned man on his back.

"Get him on the train. I'll send a medic," Chaff says, and rushes away from us down the platform. Haymitch loops his arms under Peeta's, and Cinna grabs his legs. They push up and Peeta moans out in pain.

"Stop it! You're hurting him!" I scream. Portia grabs my hand and forces my eyes to hers.

"We can't leave him out here," she whispers.

 _I know that. I know that._ They carry him back to the train and I follow, feeling utterly useless. I look over my shoulder to where the lamplight pours like a spotlight on Peeta's silhouette of blood, already seeping its way into the dry wood.

Effie runs ahead of us, and when we enter the train she gestures to the dining car. "In here! Bring him in here!" she calls as she sweeps an arm across the table. Centerpieces and accompanying adornments fly across the room. Haymitch and Cinna lay Peeta on the table. Portia hands Cinna some fabric shears and he begins carefully cutting Peeta's clothes from his body. It looks so much worse than I imagined.

"They clearly avoided his face," Haymitch says as we take in the rest of him. Peeta's mouth is covered in blood, but only because he coughed it up. His face remains relatively intact. But as the clothes are stripped from his body, the extent of his injuries becomes alarmingly evident. His skin is already bruising, and angry, dark purple marks streak his rib cage. His legs are covered with puncture wounds and deep lacerations, and I quickly realize one of the batons must have been wrapped in barbed wire. I feel trivial, so I start to unlace his shoes. My fingers shake and struggle with the double knots he always ties. Seeing him lying there exposed makes his missing limb that much more dramatic. This is a boy that has been beaten, tortured, and abused again and again. I pull the shoes off his feet and hold them in my hand.

After what feels like an eternity, a medic finally boards the train and is escorted to our room by one of the train attendants, who looks at us sympathetically before closing the door behind him. People from the Capitol are real, I remind myself. I remember Peeta's words. He always makes me see beyond myself in a way I can't get to on my own. I'm too selfish. I'm selfish right now, too. I want Peeta.

The medic sets her bag on one of the chairs and begins to assess Peeta. She listens to his chest and palpates around his torso. She runs her fingers over his body, assessing wounds and checking his eyes. Finally, she says, "As far as I can tell, he's okay. I have no idea the extent of his internal injuries, but we aren't in the position to know. I'd really like to get a chest scan, but…" Her voice drops. We all know. "You two are stylists, right? I recognize you from TV," the medic asks, gesturing to Cinna and Portia. Portia nods her head quickly. "I'm going to need you two to help me with his legs. Some of those lacerations are deep and need to be sewn up. I assume you are good with a needle and thread?" she asks.

"I sew fabric. That's… it's his skin," Portia chokes out. Cinna turns to face her and places a hand on each cheek. He looks at her with warm eyes.

"It's no different. You can do this. Peeta needs you to do this." Portia nods again, batting tears out of her eyes. The medic hands them some supplies, shows them how to clean the wounds, and Cinna and Portia begin stitching his legs back together. I start to find my breath when suddenly Peeta's eyes shoot open. He grasps his chest and his breathing quickens.

"Dammit, that's what I was worried about," the medic curses under her breath, digging through her medical bag. "How do I not have a tube in here?" Her eyes shoot up to Haymitch and Effie. "I need you to find me a plastic tube. Something sturdy but flexible. At least as big as a pencil, and relatively clean. Can you do that for me?"

Haymitch gets a look in his eye and I know he has an idea. He and Effie leave, and I suddenly feel very alone. Peeta is still gasping for air and I take his hand and whisper to him. "Hey, we've been through worse. You're going to be fine. Just stay here with me, okay? You promised to stay with me." He meets my eyes, and I see tears streaming down the side of his face. He nods at me and continues gasping like a fish on land. His color is starting to shift, and I begin to panic. This is so stupid. We won the Games. This is supposed to be over.

Haymitch and Effie burst through the door, a long rubber tube hanging in his hand. "It's from the keg. Effie washed it in the sink, but I'm not sure it's clean enough?"

"It will have to do," the medic says, and takes the tube. She removes a scalpel from her bag and brings her face over Peeta's. "Okay, listen to me. This is going to hurt, but then you will be able to breathe. I need you to lie very still, okay?" Fear overtakes Peeta's eyes, and he looks at me desperately.

"Do you want me to hold you down?" I ask, and he nods again. I press all my weight on his shoulders and look at the medic. "We're ready."

"Okay, here we go," she says, and the scalpel slices into Peeta's side. She shoves in the tube, and he screams in agony. His body struggles against mine, and I push him into the table. Finally, I hear a whir like air being released, and then blood pours from the tube onto the dining car floor.

"Is that what's supposed to happen?" I ask frantically, but then I feel Peeta's chest moving up and down. He can breathe. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. Portia and Cinna finish, and Effie begins wiping Peeta's body down with a wet cloth. The medic whispers to Haymitch, and finally she excuses herself and slips out of the train. Portia brings some clean pajamas and, with some effort, we get the clothes on his body. He has 3 broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and general signs of trauma. We need to get him to his room, and not move him again. I suggest carrying the whole table down, but the narrow hallways of the train won't allow for it.

"I'll walk," he says, and I immediately dismiss him. "No, I can do it," he says again, and sits up. His world shifts dramatically and Peeta grasps the table tight, trying to right himself. "Let's go," he says, and rises to his feet. Haymitch and Cinna each hold a hand on his shoulder and one on his back, and after an hour we've made it down the couple of cars to his room.

"I should stay here tonight," Haymitch says, and the others nod in agreement.

"No," I say, and my team gives me a peculiar look.

"He shouldn't be alone at night, while everyone is sleeping," Effie insists.

"He hasn't been… alone… at night." My eyes drop to the floor. My secret is out. _Our_ secret is out. Effie begins to protest, but Haymitch urges her out of the room. Cinna follows behind them, and Portia reaches to close the door, but not before giving me a kind, thankful smile.

I feel the train lurch, and we finally leave District 8.


	11. 8 to 7

Peeta sleeps most of the night. The medic gave him some morphling to take once we were settled, and since then he's been out. I sit in a chair next to his bed and watch him sleep. Watch him breathe. Watch him live.

I know why Snow did this. Clearly the idea of a distant threat wasn't enough to keep us in line. We needed something real, something tangible, something right in front of our faces. His message is clear. No one is safe, not even a Victor. Every single one of us is dispensable. I was stupid earlier for thinking Snow wouldn't hurt Prim because of the image of it. That he'd target someone more obscure. It is very obvious now that he has no qualms about hurting, mutilating, or killing anyone in my life.

It wouldn't take much to spin it, should the story have leaked. Should Peeta have died. Peeta protected me from a mugger or crazed fan. District 8, seething in rebellious undertones, would be vilified as the district so out of control they hurt one of the star-crossed lovers. No one would side with them. No one would pity them. No one would even believe them. There would be a scapegoat, some blameless person to be publicly executed. Another innocent life on my hands. But I'd toe the line, spin the message, or Snow would kill my sister. I feel sick.

The whole attack was a carefully crafted composition of cruelty. Hurting Peeta, not me. Making me watch. Keeping his face beautiful for the cameras. The rose. The light. The timing. The cold. The color of crimson blood on white uniforms, hurdling my mind with the image of the old man in 11. Snow will kill anyone indiscriminately if it provides a means to an end. An old man. A little girl. A Victor. He'll maim the powerful and exploit the weak. Anyone who is perceived to be a threat to the stability of Panem is at risk.

My eyes fall on Peeta's face. I hear his words ringing in my ears. I know why he's lying in that bed. No one, _no one_ has ever spoken about the Games like that in public. Maybe my stunt with the berries could be perceived as defiant, rebellious even, but Peeta was explicit. Peeta called them out. People like that get their tongues cut out.

I don't sleep.

The next day, the train "breaks down." Really, they are buying Peeta time to heal. Portia shows up early in the morning. I offer her my seat and position myself on the floor. Effie is in and out. I know it's too much for her to stay here with us, but she never goes far. Peeta sleeps most of the day. Cinna brings me toast to settle my acidic stomach. In the afternoon, Haymitch shows up. He leans on the door frame and gestures for me to come with him. I shake my head in refusal, but he insists.

"Go ahead," Portia whispers. "I got this."

I rise to my feet. My whole body aches as I move - cracking and begging to be stretched. I put one foot in front of the other. I follow Haymitch down the corridor. I know our destination is outside, and I wrap my sweater tight around my body. We jump from the still train, the bitter air purging any lingering sleepiness from my eyes, and make our way down the tracks. It's winter here. The grass is dead and gray. There is no snow on the ground. Snow might make it pretty. Instead, everything around me looks lifeless.

When we've put some distance between us in the last car, Haymitch utters, "You know why this happened."

I nod. I know exactly why this happened.

"This is serious, Katniss." He doesn't call me sweetheart. He's not choosing his words. I don't even think he's drunk. "I've never seen them hurt a Victor like that. I've seen victors abused, yes. I've seen their families killed, their bodies sold. But this is different."

"I know it is," I say softly.

"Word from 12 is everyone is safe there. This is the only retaliation so far," Haymitch offers. A weight lifts from my chest. "That doesn't mean it's going to stay like that. I know you've made your choice. You are saving your sister, and I can't blame you for that. But the way Peeta was talking yesterday… has he made his?"

"He wouldn't purposefully endanger Prim. Besides, what choice is there? There are no sides here. The Capitol is in control. There is nothing we can do about it. The only thing we can do is try to protect those we love as best we can," I reply.

Haymitch clears his throat. "There is a mechanic train coming in tonight to help with the repairs. My understanding is there is a medical staff on board," I understand his meaning. The Tour is to continue.

"Good," I reply. Haymitch catches me eyeing the train. I want to get back inside.

"Go," he says, and I rush back. He takes his time, idly kicking at the tracks. I pull myself on board and head back to Peeta's room. By the time I'm inside, he's awake and sitting up in bed. Effie has brought him some dinner, but it sits untouched on his nightstand. He smiles when he sees me.

"Hey," I say quietly, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. I'm still afraid to touch him.

"Hey," he says back, and brushes my hair out of my face. His eyes narrow with concern as he assesses me. "Did you not sleep last night?" I avoid his stare. "Katniss, you need to sleep." I scowl. That's just absurd. He's just been beaten within an inch of his life; the last thing he should be thinking about is whether I got my beauty rest. The corner of his lip smirks up at me, but then Peeta looks around the room. He isn't finding what he wants to see until Haymitch arrives. They lock eyes. "Are my parents?" Peeta can't even finish the sentence and the words choke in his throat.

Haymitch hesitates for a second. We can't talk about this here.

"They tried to call earlier to check on you," I say. It's a lie, but it means they are alive. Peeta exhales. He dozes off again, and everyone eventually clears the room to go eat dinner. I pace Peeta's room. The medical crew arrives that evening. Peeta is given injections to accelerate bone regrowth and repair. The rest of his injuries are superficial, and will heal enough on their own to do our stop in 7. He won't be better, by any means, but he won't be gravely injured either. The medical staff leaves, and our train finally starts moving again a few hours after that. The lull of the train rocks everyone into a sleepy submission, and they all retire to their compartments early.

I watch Peeta. When he stirs in bed, I lean forward in the chair. His eyes open wearily and find mine in the dark.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hey," I whisper back, my elbows resting on my knees.

"Katniss… sleep with me?" he asks quietly.

"I don't want to hurt you," I stumble over my words.

"Sleep with me."

I let his words hang in the night air between us.

"Okay," I murmur almost soundlessly. He lifts the covers on his bed and I crawl inside next to him. He pulls me into him and winces. "Oh god, I'm sorry!" I say, trying to pull away.

"No, don't go," he says. "I just shifted my weight funny." I bring myself into him slowly, resting my head on his chest. I crook my knees under his. His hands find their way to my hair. I feel his body relax, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

We doze off, but soon Peeta is awake and cringing in agony. Whatever was in the serum to expedite bone growth is causing him immense pain. His body isn't meant to heal this fast, and it's fighting it. Peeta's face is sheened with sweat, his teeth clenched, his muscles locked. He's breathing erratically, and I try to get him to focus on that. Breathe through the pain. It goes on for hours until, almost as suddenly as it started, it stops. His body sinks into the bed, the sheets drenched in sweat. I get a wet washcloth from his bathroom and wipe his body down before I crawl back in bed next to him.

We sleep through most of the following day, and by evening Peeta is feeling a lot better. He even walks to the dining car for dinner. Effie's face lights up when she sees him. She immediately clings to what she knows, and the entire meal is spent talking about the schedule and plans in District 7. We arrive first thing in the morning. Breakfast will be served on the train and then we will meet the Mayor to discuss preliminary activities. Everyone just lets her talk. We take this one moment of happiness and let ourselves forget the looming danger over all our heads.

No one is safe.


	12. District 7

We arrive in District 7 in the early morning. I'm still lying in bed with Peeta. The sun has broken through the window, but he's sleeping soundly. At some point during the night he wrapped himself around me. We haven't talked a lot since 8. About the attack. About what he said. About anything, really. But in the quiet and safety of the night, we find solace in the silence. We find comfort in our skin touching, our fingers weaved together. It's not romantic. Nothing more is happening than this. We should stop, but neither of us want to.

I sit up and peer outside. Through the window there are acres of dense forest. Unlike District 8, I could see myself happy here. Well, relatively speaking. Even in the cold of winter, the evergreens cling to their rich, emerald needles. Workers outside wear thick caps and jackets. District 7 is responsible for lumber. They not only produce the raw material, but they also cut and construct furniture and flooring, and process pulp into paper. Unlike many of the other districts, I feel connected to 7. Even though District 12 is surrounded by forest, all the homes in the Seam are built of wood from here.

District 7 has historically done well in the Games. Their children clearly work instead of going to school, because in the Arena, most are comfortable yielding axes and blades. Their bodies are strong, and unlike a factory worker from 8, they are comfortable outdoors. They can navigate a forest. They know what plants in the ground are edible. If a victor isn't a career, usually they are from 7.

Peeta senses my absence and opens his eyes. I lean back into him and he wraps his arms tight around me. We don't talk about this either.

"We should get ready," I say, in a hushed morning voice.

"Okay," he says as he squeezes me tighter, before finally letting me go.

I brush my teeth in Peeta's bathroom and spit the paste into the sink. I run the water and watch it slip down the drain. Peeta enters the room, his hair tousled with sleep. I close the toilet seat and sit to braid my hair as he washes his face. He doesn't like being apart from me, which right now suits me just fine. He is slow to move, and even though his ribs are mended, the remaining wounds are still causing him a significant amount of discomfort. I pull his nightshirt over his head and try not to stare at the angry, purple bruises fading into greens and yellows. Instead, I head back into the bedroom to find some daytime clothes. Button-up shirts work best, that way he doesn't have to lift his arms over his head. I lay a couple items on the bed before I sneak down the hall and change in my own compartment.

Effie chatters through breakfast. Peeta reaches for my hand under the table. I take it. She and Haymitch head off to meet with the mayor, and Peeta and I are separated for prep. He gives me a lingering look before finally following his team down the hall.

District 7 is cold, just like home. I know they plan the Tour to be perfectly spaced between Games, but feminine clothing does not lend itself to temperate climates. Everything I'm wearing is shades of green to honor the district. When I finally make my way to the Justice Building, everyone is already there and waiting. Peeta weaves his hand in mine.

"We are sticking to the cards, right?" he asks quietly.

"Yes. Nothing more but the cards."

Might as well. I have nothing to say. Neither of the tributes made it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. I remember watching Marvel kill the girl in the recaps. I remember thinking she was tiny. I realize I'm almost numb. Their deaths were an atrocity. They were children. I don't even remember their faces.

Peeta and I take the stage together. The citizens seem less riled than they did in 8. There is still an undercurrent of resentment, but I'd expect that at any Victory Tour stop. We read the speeches. I don't look at the families. They can't be my responsibility. I need to focus on keeping my sister alive. On Gale. My thoughts drift to our last conversation before I left. My heart lodges itself in my throat, and suddenly my hand feels clammy and sweltered trapped in Peeta's. I put on the show. We kiss and wave before leaving the stage. Once the doors close, I extract myself from his grip.

I see Peeta's brow furrow in confusion, but I can't do this right now.

"Are you okay?" he asks, with concern heavy in his voice.

"I'm fine. I just… I need some air." Effie tells me there is a garden off the veranda. I don't know what a veranda is, so finally she just points and I take off. The garden is massive and I find a quiet corner to hide in. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I rest my head in my hands and my mind slips back to that morning in the woods. I suggested we go check the traps, and before I knew what was happening, Gale pressed his mouth to mine. His lips were warm against the cool morning air. His fingers entwined around me, and I felt a small noise choke in the back of my throat. It never happened again, I don't even know if I'd want it to, but unlike so many kisses in front of cameras, I knew it was a real moment between two people.

I shouldn't be spending my nights with Peeta. I'm leading him on. I'm taking comfort in him, and I'm leading him on, because I'm a selfish, stupid girl.

I don't want any of this. Gale or Peeta. I've known my whole life that I'm not meant to be with someone. Both of them are just confusing me. Neither one gives me any say in the matter. It's infuriating. I want to be alone. I shouldn't be surprised when I see Peeta making his way down the hill to me.

"Hey, what are you doing down here?" he asks.

"Nothing." I'm defensive. I try not to be, but it's dripping all over my words.

"Okay… Are you cold?" Peeta starts to remove his jacket, which just infuriates me more.

"You just… you walked away! After our Games, out on the tracks, you just walked away! You didn't even give me a chance to…"

"A chance to what?" he asks point blank. I shake my head. "Is that what you want, Katniss? A chance?" He looks at me with a hopeless hopefulness in his eyes.

"I'm not asking for a chance. I'm asking for a choice. I never even had a choice," I spit back.

"Well?" he asks.

"Well what?" I hiss.

"Well, you have a choice now," he offers.

"Not really, Peeta. I choose you or my sister dies."

"That's not what I mean and you know it," Peeta says back. "We can keep this up. I will play this charade forever with you, if that's what you want. But it doesn't have to be like this. You could actually love me."

I recoil at the word. It's written all over me. I see the hurt flash in his eyes, and he pushes it back down.

"You can be with him, if you want to. I'll still do this." He gestures around him. He'll still play the game. He'll live his life alone, he'll cover for me and Gale, he'll sacrifice his own happiness to let me have mine. To save my sister.

"Peeta," I step forward, my hand reaching for him, but he retracts.

"Don't. Look, be with him or not, but it's pretty obvious, you wouldn't choose me. I'm not your choice. Everything between us is because of circumstance. I get it." He starts to leave, and I hear him say under his breath, once more just to himself, "I get it."

I watch him walk away, and I remember him walking away from me on the tracks. We are always walking away from one another. Why do I care about someone who is forever walking away from me? Because when I need him, he runs. Maybe he walks away from me, but he runs toward me. I'm the one putting up the walls. Pushing him back.

I wait a while before I head back inside. I eat a light lunch during my prep session. Cinna drapes me in a long, floor length gown that looks like leaves wrestling in the wind when I walk. It's truly stunning. I give him a faint smile that doesn't quite make it to my eyes.

"You're doing great, just keep it up."

"I feel like I'm betraying them, Cinna." I'm careful with my words. I don't know who is listening. "I just wish I could say something that would offer them some kind of hope."

"They do have hope. They have hope just seeing you. You give that to them." Cinna always knows what to say. Comforting, true, and not too rebellious.

I meet Peeta outside the ballroom and we prepare to head inside. He's dressed in a chocolate brown suit with earth-tone accents. We look like we belong together. I just don't feel that way. He ignores me for the most part, until the doors open, and he takes my hand in his.

The crowd here is larger than the other events, even though District 7 is a medium-sized district from a population standpoint. The victors here are celebrated and are featured guests at our banquet. I'm surprised to learn there is only one living female victor, although there are several men. I don't bother to say hello. I don't look at them really. I can't deal with that right now.

Despite his proximity and frequent displays of affection, Peeta feels more distant now than he has since we left 12. My hand rests idly in his, but where he'd normally stroke my skin with his thumb or squeeze me tight in acknowledgement, he keeps his hand limp. We finish our meal and reach the dance floor. Peeta winces in pain as our movements begin.

"Do you need to stop?" I ask with quiet concern.

"I'm fine, let's just do this," he replies coldly. His hand rests on my waist and my skin feels like it catches on fire. We sway. Peeta's movements are stiff. He's clearly trying to brace his body in a way that doesn't cause him too much pain. I'm afraid to touch him, but he keeps moving steadily.

"Mind if I cut in?" a voice asks from behind. We spin around to see a young man dressed in stylish clothes, but absent any Capitol-garishness that we often see in visiting guests. A large scar runs down his cheek. A victor.

Peeta tightens his grip on my waist. Angry with me or not, he still wants to keep me safe. "Thanks, but I plan on keeping her all to myself."

The man is clearly agitated. He's obviously not used to being told no. This is a man that gets what, or who, he wants. This isn't an accidental victor. I see something incendiary flash in his eyes, and immediately push my body in front of Peeta when a woman steps between us.

"Whatcha up to, Ash?" she says, her back to me. She slinks toward the man seductively, but a wildfire is lit in her eyes, matching his.

"I told you not to call me that, Johanna."

She pouts. "Oh, poor little Ash. Isn't that what your mommy calls you?" She fists her hands in his shirt and runs her tongue along his jawline.

"I'm warning you," he threatens, his body looming over hers.

She bites his earlobe and pulls her mouth to his ear. She locks eyes with me and says, "If you don't leave that girl alone, I'll run my axe across your throat and leave you to bleed out like the pig you are."

He coughs uncomfortably and exits. Johanna turns around and adjusts her dress. It leaves nothing to the imagination. She looks through me toward Peeta. "Maybe I could show you what a real woman is?" Peeta just stands there, and she turns quickly on her heel and struts away, Peeta's eyes following her every move. Something inside my writhes.

The night comes to a close. We bid a few farewells and make our way back to the train. I slip back to my room and close the door. Normally Peeta would wait for everyone to go to bed before sneaking down here. Or I'd find my way to him. I don't think he's coming tonight.

I drop onto my bed and exhale at the ceiling. This district went well. Sure, there was a murmuring fury toward the Capitol, but they stayed in line. Our speeches were good. The dinner was fine. Everyone seemed calm, for the most part. Collected. So why am I feeling this knot in my stomach like something isn't right?

I hang the dress in my closet and crawl into bed. I find my thoughts drifting to that woman. Strong. Assertive. Too assertive. I let my eyes fall closed, but I'm not safe in my bed anymore. The nightmares return with a vengeance, as if to compensate for the nights I'd managed to fight them off. I'm choking on blood, trying to scream for Prim. Gale is trapped in a mine collapse and starves to death, tasting only coal dust and death. Rue dies in my arms and then evaporates into the air like she never was here at all. Venom drips from Glimmer's eyes like toxic tears. Peeta. He's gone. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

I drag myself awake and find my throat raw from screaming. I pull myself from bed, wearing only my night shirt, and dart for the empty dark hallway. My feet trace their way toward his room, but Peeta is already in the corridor making his way toward me. When I see him I rush forward, throwing my arms around his neck. My throat burns, salty tears stream down my face.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I keep repeating as we slide down to the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He pulls me into his lap and rocks me slowly. His hands find their home in my hair.

"It's okay," he says quietly, rubbing my back. My body shakes and I don't let go. I'm never letting go of this boy. I want to tell him that. That I've made a choice. But I can't. I can't say those words aloud. It makes them real, and the only thing that's real in this moment is the feeling of hand on my back.

"My room or yours?" he asks quietly. We need to get out of the hall.

"Wherever you are."


	13. 7 to 6

Peeta takes me back to his room. Even though it's identical to mine, I feel safer here. Like the nightmares don't know where I am. He removes his leg and crawls into bed, holding the covers open for me. I crawl in beside him. His arms wrap around me and I pull my body flush with his. I want every part of me against every part of him. We both squeeze each other tight and don't let go, and it hits me. I don't want to let go.

I press my face into his chest and breathe in the scent of him. Even though we've been gone from 12 for a while, the fragrance of cinnamon and dill lingers on his skin like it's a permanent part of his being. He presses a soft kiss into my hair. I find his hand and weave it together with mine. I lace our fingers, press our palms together. Peeta opens his eyes and looks down at me. I meet his gaze. I think he expects me to break away first, but I don't. We both wait, staring at each other.

Slowly I tilt my face up and press my lips to his. They are dry and smooth. He doesn't kiss me back at first. He waits still, expecting me to stop, to panic, to retreat. But I don't stop. I pull myself on top of him, and the mood shifts. He brings his hands to either side of my face and kisses me like he means it. Our mouths move together. We've kissed a million times, his lips are familiar, but what they are doing now is not. There is urgency behind it. We are not sure where it's going or if it will ever happen again, and we both decide to live in the moment. He rolls over and presses me into the bed. I want to feel him against me, not for the cameras or to save someone or because we have to, but for me. I've spent the Tour getting to know Peeta. He bakes. He paints. He always sleeps with the window open. He double knots his shoes. But now I'm learning him in an entirely new way. I'm learning his mouth is warm and wet and steady. I'm learning that I like the feel of his hands under my shirt, on my stomach and up my back. I'm learning that his skin tastes like salt.

When he finally pulls away, my lips feel lonely without his. "We should sleep," he whispers, beginning to shift his body off mine. I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him back onto me.

"Peeta." I don't know what to say. Stay with me? He's already here. I pushed him away and he came and found me anyway.

"I like when you say my name," he whispers. He kisses me chastely before lying back on the bed next to me. I pull myself into him and rest my head on his chest. In place of its normal slow, steady thud, his heart is pounding against his ribcage. It makes me smile.

I finally fall asleep, I don't wake up again until morning.

At breakfast, Peeta is acting especially guilty and I want to slap him in the face. Everyone knows we've been sleeping together. After my confession, Effie asked us to stop. It wasn't proper for two teenagers to be spending their nights together alone. We didn't. Maybe we tried to be more discrete, played at sneaking around, but we never stopped. We are the gossip of the train. Good. Maybe it will get back to Snow.

I think our team knows it's been innocent. They heard me screaming terrors in the night. They know why I am with him. But now, Peeta can't stop grinning. He meets my eyes and I scowl at him. It only makes it worse.

Effie tells us District 6 is the most populous in Panem by far. I remember learning this in school. District 6 has almost four times as many people as District 2, which has the second largest population. From what I can tell from Effie's carefully chosen words, they are on the poorer side. District 6 is responsible for transportation, but because of their mostly mechanical jobs, they never fare well in the Games. Unlike 7's comfort with axes and blades, or the agricultural districts' experience with scythes and machetes, District 6 is primarily assembly-line production of trains, cars, and hovercraft. They weld – but it's not like anyone can get their hands on a torch in an Arena. Despite their enormous population, they've only had as many victors as 12 has, and not much is known about them.

To get to District 6, we have to come back the way we came and then some. It will take a few days. After breakfast, Portia and Cinna excuse themselves to go work on our outfits for the ball in the Capitol. Haymitch goes to his room to drink, and Effie covers the table with plans for the upcoming districts. Itineraries, booklets on District customs. She never wants to be unfashionable. Effie tells us there will be a bit stop the refuel later this afternoon.

I hate travel. I feel claustrophobic. My legs are jittery with inactivity. There is an exercise car, but I find my mind wanders to bad places when I run on the treadmill, so instead I just complain. "Have you seen the last car?" Peeta asks, and I shake my head. That end of the train is part of Peeta's wandering turf, so I've steered clear. He gives me a giant grin. "Oh, you'll like it. Come on," he says, grabbing my hand.

Peeta leads me to the back of the train and we enter the last car. The room takes my breath away. Windows drop floor to ceiling, with cushioned benches hugging the wall. I walk slowly to a window and gingerly place my fingertips on the glass. I see the world running away from us, but it's the world. It's not just us on this train. We are part of something bigger. I stand there entranced, and watch the green forests dip into plains. It's too cold for flowers and there aren't a lot of animals, but it still feels like it's breathing. The train begins to drag to a lull to refuel, and I can't wait to step outside and feel real air in my lungs.

When Peeta and I jump from the train, he weaves his hand in mine. My heart leaps to my throat and I want to pull away, but I don't. Instead, I squeeze his hand back and watch the smile creep across his face. I focus on the earth, the air, the sky. I stare long distances, because in the train everything is right in front of my face. Out here it feels open.

After we've put some distance between ourselves and the train, I ask, "Peeta, do you think we are doing any good?"

"What do you mean?" he replies, meeting my troubled gaze.

"The people in the districts. Especially in 11 and 8. I don't think anyone's buying it."

"I don't think there's anything to buy," he responds. I hate when he gets cryptic and romantic all at the same time. I shift uncomfortably.

"I can't talk about that right now," I say as I stare at the ground.

"That's not what I mean," he says, and I breathe a little. I can't have another conversation about us. "What I mean is… Katniss, even if we did what we did purely out of love, it doesn't change the fact that we broke the rules. We rebelled. I think, even if we'd swallowed those berries and they let us die, the districts would still be seething like this. Things are coming to a head."

"But I have to save Gale. And my sister."

Peeta drops my hand and for a moment a flash of anger overcomes me. I say Gale's name and he can't hold my hand? But suddenly his palms are on my cheeks, he fingers in my hair. His blue eyes look at mine with purpose. His face offers comfort but his words do not. "No amount of kissing and pretending to be in love is going to stop Snow from hurting them." Before I can stop it, tears burn at my eyes and I try to turn my head away from him, but he moves his to stay in my sight. "Katniss. We need to play along. We need to make it through this Tour. But we need another plan."

"What other plan? There is no other choice," I reply, frustrated and sounding more resentful than I mean to.

"We'll think of something," he offers.

"What? Run away? Live in the woods? We can't take everyone with us. Prim, my mom, your whole family, Gale, Hazelle, all the kids. Haymitch, I can't leave Haymitch behind. Maybe we'd make it, just you and me, but we can't hide all those people. They'd hunt us down like a pack of wild dogs and execute us." I see Posy's body pierced with a bullet. I see her blood soak into the dry leaves of the forest floor. Peeta notices the distance in my eyes and wraps his arms around me, keeping me here. I breathe him in. "I just wish we had another choice."

"We'll think of something," he whispers into my neck.

After dinner, the adults stay up for hours. I'm exhausted. The emotional stress of the day is catching up with me, but I won't be able to sneak to Peeta's room with everyone awake. I'm starting to wonder if they are doing it on purpose. I knew Peeta looked guilty this morning. Finally I just give up and retreat to my room. Peeta retires to his. There is no way to get from one to the other without being seen – the lounge car is too close to my compartment.

I crawl in bed frustrated and alone. The sheets feel chilled against my bare legs, and I get out of bed and pull on pants. My feet are like ice and I slide thick, woolen socks over them and bury myself under the covers. Peeta is a furnace. I'm not used to my bed being this cold. My eyes begin to grow heavy.

District 6 is the genesis of a ghost story. His name is whispered by kids when they think their parents aren't listening. _Titus_. His story is told with the same tone as most lore – with precaution and fright. The only difference is we know his story hasn't been exaggerated or misconstrued with time or retelling. It's all recorded. Titus was a tribute from District 6 in a Hunger Games when I was a little girl - maybe 5 or 6. He was vicious in the Arena and he was easily a favorite to win. He was lauded by the Capitol, an underdog from a forgotten district, until he lost his mind. He began eating his kills. No one expected it the first time, and when he began ripping the flesh from the bones of a little girl he'd slain with his teeth, the cameras quickly cut away. The children in school the next day were quiet. The teachers didn't know what to say. Titus went on a killing rampage. He took out 5 tributes in as many hours, until he was killed in an avalanche. Most people assume the Capitol did it on purpose, so the reigning victor wouldn't be a cannibalistic maniac. Kids at school would tease that if you didn't watch your back, his phantom would consume you where you slept. That he'd take your throat first, so you couldn't scream. Even more horrific, though, was the idea we all feared and refused to talk about. Being reaped. Losing yourself in the Arena. Becoming someone you aren't. Being forged into some _thing_ you are not. As the train rocks, and my eyes fall closed, the nightmares are unforgiving. I can taste the veins stuck in my teeth. I can hear children screaming in agony. It's me. I'm screaming. I'm screaming and screaming and screaming.

I wake, but not really. I can't come back. I try to process what's going on. I see Cinna and Effie. I can feel their hands on my body but I can't grab them, can't anchor myself. My throat feels like it's bleeding, but I can't stop screaming. I see Haymitch at the door. He's dripping with blood and I squeeze my eyes closed. Effie is crying. I can't do this. I can't do this.

I feel fingers weave in my hair and I find silence in my throat. "Shhhh…" I hear a calm hush in my ear. I swallow and it burns. Arms wrap around me and rock slowly, each sway bringing me closer to reality. "I'm here, I got you," he whispers. His thumbs rub circles into my muscles, urging away the tension. I open my eyes, which struggle to focus until they see tranquil blue mirrors staring back. Peeta. "There you are," he says, and all the muscles in my body relax. I hear the door click. The lights go out.

We are finally alone. He slips under the covers with me, and the train keeps pushing toward 6 like nothing ever happened, but I finally feel warm.


	14. District 6

The day we arrive in District 6 it's rainy and cold. Murky clouds hang in the air, obscuring any sunlight, but I'm in the fresh air so it's not all bad. My eyes scan the crowd, stuffed into the square with factories upon factories spread out in the distance. Based on their clothes, they aren't well off, but no one appears to be starving. Absent are the gaunt cheeks and haunted eyes that permeate the population of District 12. Instead, though, these people seem broken in a different kind of way. It almost reminds me of 11. The regimented way in which they marched in, the way they flinch when a Peacekeeper steps near... These people are not safe.

I can't believe it, but I've become numb to the families. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, but I take them in with indifference. It makes playing my role easier. The two tributes from this district died first in our Games. Neither made it more than a minute. I'm not sure if they were targeted, or it was just a convenient kill in a slaughter, but they were gone as quickly as a wet footprint evaporates off hot summer pavement. Here one moment, gone the next.

Peeta concludes his speech, and my eyes shift to his face. His jawline is chiseled and clenched. He looks like he's holding something back, and I follow his eyes into the crowd to see what he's seeing. Tiny. Small. A little boy, arms wrapped around his mother's leg, a deep lash in his face, wrapped pitifully with bandages. My indifference melts away, and rage boils under my skin, through my body. Peeta senses the shift, and wraps his hand in mine. He leans over to kiss my cheek, and brings his lips to my ear. "We're almost done. We can do this." I smile and giggle, pretending he's whispered sweet-nothings in my ear, not cautioned me against doing something that might get Gale killed.

Behind the closed doors of the Justice Building, I fume. Effie is a bit startled by my furious pacing. Peeta makes up some excuse, but it doesn't pacify her concern. I don't care. Haymitch gives Peeta a look, and when he breaks away from the group Peeta and I follow suit. Haymitch goes up a flight of stairs to an abandoned part of the Justice Building. Inside an old office is a small, private toilet. The three of us cram inside. The smell of alcohol on Haymitch's breath is near nauseating.

"What happened?" he asks, still in a whisper.

"Nothing happened," I say. "It's just exhausting, seeing people like this."

"People like what?" he presses.

"There was a little boy," Peeta discloses quietly. "He had a lash on his face. Like from a weapon of some sort. He was… 2? 3?" My stomach feels like it might revolt between the smell of white liquor and my imagination recreating what must have happened to that little boy.

"I just hate this," I grumble.

"Which part?" Haymitch deadpans.

"I can't help these people!"

"You could," he offers, "if you chose to." I can feel my face morph into confusion. What is he talking about? There are no choices here.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"You have a choice, Katniss. Do what Snow says or don't," he says.

"Even if I could, I have other priorities. I have Prim. I can't put these people ahead of her."

"There are a thousand Prims out there!" Haymitch feels his voice raise, and drops it again. "That little boy is someone's Prim. Rue was someone's Prim." He looks at me in exacerbation. "Look, I'll help you in whatever way you want. If you want to placate the districts on behalf of the Capitol, then we'll do it. If you want to fight back, then I'll help with that too. But you've got to let me know when you get your priorities straight, because straddling both sides of the line is just going to get people killed for nothing." Haymitch pushes his way out of the bathroom and leaves us alone.

My mind is reeling.

"Fight back?" Peeta whispers. I meet his bewilderment with my own.

"I can't. I can't do anything that would risk Prim. If it was just me… I don't care about me. But, she's too good. Too pure to be…" I swallow. I can't even say it out loud.

Peeta cups my face in his hands and strokes my cheek with his thumb. I realize we are alone. Like… really alone. No cameras. No listening devices. No one even knows where we are. For the first time in a long time, it's just us.

"You love her," Peeta says quietly.

"I do, Peeta. I know it's selfish, but she comes first for me. But she'll never be safe. Not really. The moment her name was pulled from that bowl, the moment I volunteered. She'll never be safe, no matter what I choose," I fumble over my words. They are fast and loose on my lips, until Peeta presses his to mine. We haven't kissed since that night in his bed. We've spent our nights tangled together, but our lips have been strangers. He's still, waiting for me to kiss him back. I slowly move my mouth, and he exhales into me.

Peeta breaks away, and our foreheads press together. "I think you know what you want to do."

"I know what I want to do. I just can't," I whisper.

"Katniss…" His eyes dart between mine, and I feel a knot tighten in my lower stomach. My breathing shallows, my body is taut, like I'm trying not to get caught. Like I'm trying not to break something. My skin tingles with over-stimulus, as though even the air brushing against me sets me alight. Peeta steps in closer. His hands are still on my cheeks, and he slides them back into my hair. His mouth moves to meet mine, and we collide. I'm pulling at his shirt and his hands slip under mine, running up the bare skin on my back. I trace my tongue across his bottom lip and he meets mine.

This is not friendly kissing. My body is trying to tell him something my brain can't accept, my mouth cannot say, my thoughts cannot formulate. But there is something between us. His mouth traces down my jawline to my neck, and a fire lights inside me.

"I want to do something," he whispers, and my eyes lock on his. My mouth goes dry and my stomach whirls. He bites his lip, and keeps his eyes on mine as he slides his hand up the inner part of my thigh. His hand slips under my skirt and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes stay with mine, and I can't drop his gaze. His mouth parts slightly and I want to kiss him, but I'm frozen in anticipation. Panic. Excitement. I don't know what he's doing, but I want this to happen. I nod softly to let him know it's okay. His fingertips graze the outside of my panties and then he slowly slides his hand inside. The breath escapes from my lungs and my hands dart to his hair. I've never done this. I've never done anything like this. The look on Peeta's face is a mix of wonder and elation. His eyes remain locked with mine as he curls a finger inside me, and I feel a tremor shoot through my body. My hands tug slightly at his hair as he begins slowly moving his finger back and forth.

I didn't know my body could feel like this. I've always retreated from affection. My body functions to make me aware of my surroundings – it's cold, it's hot, it's raining, that will burn you… I'm aware now. I'm very aware. I feel a whimper escape my throat, and Peeta smiles slightly before finally breaking eye contact. He slips his hand out of my panties and he presses his mouth to mine softly. I try to kiss back, but my whole body is trembling slightly.

"You okay?" he asks. I nod my head quickly. "Was that okay? That I did that?" I nod again.

"I just… I've never done anything like that before," I whisper.

"Me either," he smiles.

"I like being close to you," I confess, shifting my eyes to the sink. I know it's not a declaration of love. It's not exactly what he wants to hear. But it's honest. I like being with him like this. I like being with him.

"Me too," he says, and squeezes my hand. "We should get back."

"Yeah," I say, straightening my skirt. He bends down to adjust his leg and looks up at me. My fingers meet his lips, soft and supple. I begin to wipe my lipstick away from his mouth when his hand catches mine. The electricity between us sparks, and I try to breathe.

"Leave it. That way the Peacekeepers aren't suspicious about why we snuck off." He's right. I shift my skirt out of place again. Maybe some reporter will catch us. Maybe a scandalous photo of Peeta and me will plaster the televisions in Panem. Good. Couldn't hurt.

We finally rejoin our group. Effie is a in a tizzy over our tardiness when she glimpses our appearance.

"Children! This is not acceptable in distinguished society! What were you thinking?" she shrieks as she tries to clean up Peeta's face with a napkin.

Cinna straightens my skirt with a devious smirk. "Nice touch," he whispers.

The dinner is uneventful at best. I like routine, but there is almost nothing worth talking about. I try to ramp up the affection with Peeta, but after our excursion this afternoon I'm gun shy. I suppose boring is better than riotous, but I've done nothing here to convince Snow. When we board the train that night, I feel like a failure.

Instead of going to my compartment to change, my feet make their way to the garment car. I was hoping to find Cinna, but instead Portia is propped at a small table with a sewing machine running stiches through a pair of slacks.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," I stammer out, reaching back for the door.

"You wanna hide in here with me? I won't tell anyone," Portia offers, and I give her a small smile. "Cinna's the social one. I'd be fine locked in here all day."

I could like Portia.

"What are you working on?" I ask, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet across from her.

"Oh, Peeta is impossible to keep up with. I swear he's grown an inch since the start of the Tour alone!" she says. She's right. Since the end of our Games he's filled out. Not that he looked like a boy, but his shoulders have broadened, his chest is more prominent. He's getting taller. He complains because his prosthetic leg isn't growing with him, and adjusting the height is tedious and difficult.

"Why did you volunteer for our District? Why did you want Twelve?" I ask, resting my chin on my knees.

"I suppose I've always admired Twelve," she ponders, and I can't help but let out a short laugh. "I mean it," Portia insists.

"Admired what? We never win. We are weak and underfed. And frankly, not much to look at," I mumble. It's true. Most of District 12's tributes come from the Seam. We take more tesserae. We are more vulnerable. We are feeble and weak. Peeta was an exception.

"I think you have spirit." Portia keeps her eyes on her work. "I wanted to help. I didn't like seeing kids overlooked because they were small. From a small seed grows a mighty tree." She lifts her face and her eyes meet mine. "Sometimes you know what you are meant to do. You have a purpose. An opportunity to help because of something only you possess, only you can do. I wanted to help people."

"You have," I offer. "You helped me and Peeta." She smiles, but gives me a knowing look. She means more than us. She wants to help Panem. She's in this for reasons that could get her killed.

I dismiss myself, and Portia's words run through my head. _Sometimes you know what you are meant to do. Sometimes you know._ When I sneak into Peeta's room, he's already asleep. I drop my dress on the floor, pull on one of his shirts, and climb in beside him. A few minute later I feel the train pull away from 6.


	15. 6 to 5

The trip between Districts 6 and 5 is to be the longest of the Tour, with the exception of when we head home. 5 is located on the far side of the great mountains that run through our country, and on which perches the Capitol. Effie tells us the trip alone will be almost a week, with numerous stops planned for fuel and supplies. I'm not looking forward to being cooped up that long. Peeta senses I'm antsy and rests his hand on my back. I pull away. I'm not comfortable with public displays of affection. Well, I'm not comfortable with real ones, anyway.

Everyone separates and spends their days doing what they do. Haymitch passes out in his room, helplessly nocturnal. Effie tells us there is to be a parade in 5, and planning the logistics will occupy most of her time. Cinna and Portia need to design and construct pieces for us to wear as part of the celebration, and they immediately dismiss themselves to the garment car.

So it's Peeta and me.

"What do you want to do?" Peeta asks. I know what I want to do. But I'm not doing that.

"I don't know," I shrug.

"Do you mind if I paint? You can come with me, if you want. I haven't really painted since the Tour started, and stuff has happened, and…" he stutters.

"Yeah, that sounds nice," I say.

"Really?" Peeta exclaims. "That's great. I'm going to change. I think Portia might kill me before Snow does if I get paint on these pants. She just sewed them." I smile remembering Portia complaining about his measurements last night. I imagine her face when he delivers his brand new pants covered in forest green paint. I chuckle to myself. "Are you smiling, Katniss Everdeen?" Peeta flirts. I try to hide my grin, but now I'm full on laughing and I can't seem to stop.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I wheeze, tears running down my cheeks. "Portia would throw you out a train window." I finally get control of myself and catch Peeta grinning widely at me.

I wait outside his door while he changes pants, and then we head down to the art car. The room is full of natural light, and if it weren't full of haunting paintings of my worst nightmares, I might hide out in here more often. I settle into a couch on the far end of the train and watch Peeta set up. He props up an easel and adds a canvas. From a carved mahogany box he removes tubes of paint and squeezes them onto a palette. He fills a cup with water and pulls a few differently shaped brushes from a drawer before he drops them in. He selects his tool, and furrows his brow as he assesses the blank canvas. He sees what he wants there, and begins.

The early parts of his painting are kind of boring. He sweeps in broad strokes, bringing depth and meaning to the background. Wooden planks begin to take form. He swirls the grain of the woods with his brush, focusing on each board with meticulous detail. He darkens the edges of the canvas and brightens the center. A spotlight. When he dips his brush in the red, I know what he's painting. His blood pours onto the platform. In the distance he paints a tiny figure, her dress billowing behind her as she escapes the light. Me. Running away.

"I was going to the train for help," I whisper.

"I know," he says, adding sheen to his blood, the reflection of the lamplight shining off it as if it were a red glass bauble and not a pool of blood.

"Why did you paint that?" I ask.

"It's been in my nightmares a lot," he confesses, keeping his gaze on the canvas.

"The beating?" I offer.

"You running away." He's quiet for a minute. "I know why you left. You weren't abandoning me. But I can't help what I see at night." I know what he means. Twisted truths haunt me as well, nightmares that have foundations in reality, but contort themselves into something wicked and wrong.

"Why don't you wake me?" I feel guilty for all the nights I disturb him, the hours of sleep he loses to coaxing me down from whatever terror I've witnessed. He sits on the couch beside me.

"My nightmares are always about losing you. When I wake up, and I see that you're there…" His voice drops off. "It'll be worse when we're back home. When we go back to how things were."

"I don't want to go back to how things were," I insist, and he looks up at me.

"It's not lost on me, Katniss. What this is. It's a matter of circumstance. When we are home, and you are back with…" I know he means to say Gale but he swallows it, "your family, this will all be done." I want to protest. I want to yell at him for thinking so little of me, but I can't help wondering if he's right. If, as we get closer to 12, his hands will start to feel foreign again. If I'll want to pull away. It happened last time. He can see the struggle on my face, and it reaffirms every doubt he's feeling. "It's okay. I have you here. I'll take what I can get." Peeta rises from the couch and rinses his brushes. He packs his tools and leans the wet canvas on a wall. "I'm sorry. This was probably a bad idea, but I needed to paint or I was going to lose my mind. I needed to take control of it. I'm going to go get ready for dinner."

Peeta kisses the top of my head and exits the car. I'm left staring at his nightmares. Many of them are mine too. It's hard to describe, but he brings beauty to horror. I think that's how he sees the world. Not with rose-colored glasses, but he finds truth and beauty in things that only show me cruelty and despair. In physical things - the light shining off his blood, the mud cracks in the dry river bed. To me, a dry river means dehydration and death, but he sees how the cracks spread and grow in intricate patterns, like tree branches reaching for the sun. He sees beauty in abstract things too; he brings humanity to villainy. He paints Cato, shrouded in defeat, still ready to murder Peeta, but stripped of his ideals. Of what he thought the Games would be. He hasn't found honor or glory. He's accepted death before he's even fully grown. Peeta paints it in his eyes.

I don't see the world like him. I'm not sure I want to. Things are black and white for me. Good and evil. These caveats, this grayness that Peeta lives in, I don't know how to choose when right and wrong aren't obvious. Saving Prim and fighting back aren't on opposite ends of the spectrum. They are both right. One shouldn't have to mean sacrificing the other, but in this world of grays, it does.

I choose Prim. I will always choose Prim.

I go back to my room and wait for dinner. I stare at the walls. Nothing is ever easy. Dinner comes soon and is over quickly. After the table is cleared, Peeta pulls out a deck of cards.

"Where did you get those, Peeta? That's contraband!" Effie screeches.

"Only in the districts, and we aren't technically in the districts, are we?" he retorts. It's true. We are in the wilderness between the districts.

"Deal 'em out!" Haymitch hoots, slapping the table.

Peeta shuffles the deck and deals the cards while Haymitch explains the rules. Effie hems and haws. She raps her fingers on the cards in front of her. Effie isn't comfortable in grays either. Finally, she lifts the cards and views her hand. "Well, _technically_ we aren't in the districts…"

Haymitch smiles at her and we begin play. Haymitch is awful. I mean awful. I expected more from him, but his tells are obvious and he doesn't seem to keep up with the pace of play. At times he's so drunk he misreads his cards. The game stretches late into the night, peppered with laughter, snacks, and general gaiety. After winning a big hand, Peeta kisses my cheek. I blush feverishly, but I let it be. He's happy.

At the end of the night, most of us are out of bank. By sheer luck, Haymitch has a decent amount of things left to barter, while Effie has the majority of the night's winnings in front of her. Haymitch is making a fool out of himself. He is drunker than usual, and it's obvious to any mug he's bluffing on his hand. He forces Effie to make an exorbitant bet, which she hastily accepts knowing the value her hand.

"There you are, Mr. Abernathy," she chirps as she lays her winning hand on the table. The cards are good. Very good.

Haymitch sits up straight. His drunken demeanor vanishes, and he locks eyes with Effie before laying his cards on the table. "Read them and weep, princess." Haymitch reaches across the table and pulls all the winnings to him, while Effie sits there flabbergasted and mouth ajar.

"But you, but you…"Effie babbles.

"I don't mean what I say, and I don't say what I mean," he says, stuffing his winnings in his pockets. He's almost entirely sober. He's been playing all of us, all night.

"You're too clever for your own good!" Effie fumes, and then storms out of the room.

"What? It's just a game!" he shouts after her. We all stare at him. "What?"

"You made her feel stupid," Cinna says.

"And then you gloated," adds Peeta.

"She's a grown woman. Come on! It's…" Haymitch's voice trails and he looks to the door where Effie abruptly exited. Without saying anything more, he follows her.

"Hm," Cinna grunts, with a smirk on his face.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing. We should get to bed," Portia dismisses me.

"What?" I inquire again with growing irritation.

"He doesn't like it when she's mad at him," Cinna offers.

"That's ridiculous. He teases her all the time," I say glibly.

"See you in the morning," Cinna replies, and squeezes my hand. He and Portia leave the room. It looks like they've all given up on keeping Peeta and I apart. We don't even have to sneak around tonight. Peeta begins cleaning off the table, and I help him collect the cards.

"I'm going to go back to my room for a little bit. Do you want me to swing by later?" Peeta asks. Even though we spend every night together, he still leaves the decision up to me. Like he expects me to back out.

"Do you think this could be our life one day? Laughing? Being carefree?" I ask, my eyes still on the table.

"Yeah, I think it could. Someday," he says, somewhat wistfully.

That night in our room, Peeta kisses me good night. It's not urgent, there's nothing more behind it. It's a comfortable, ordinary kiss. His lips are on mine for a second, maybe less. But it makes me feel safe. It makes me feel warm.

It's a kiss he'd give me a thousand times if I let him. If I gave him a thousand nights.


	16. District 5

The train pulled into the station of District 5 late last night. We eat breakfast in the dining car before heading to the parade. This is the first district we've visited that is wealthy enough to have a parade. I get the sense most districts are struggling to even put on the required ceremony and feast. I know District 12 sacrifices when hosting the Victory Tour. While 5 isn't affluent by any means, they don't seem to be struggling as much either. I think it's because of their small population, though. They don't seem to receive any favors from the Capitol.

District 5 produces electricity. It's the reason for their close proximity to the Capitol, and the reason that districts farther out like 12 hardly receive the power they need. The parade today will take place along the top of a major dam. The sheer height of it takes my breath away. The dam is nearly a thousand feet down with water cascading across its face. I can perch at the tops of trees, but I feel tiny on this thing. Insignificant. In a way, I don't mind being insignificant right now.

Peeta and I wait at the start of the dam. The entire parade will pass us, and then we will jump in at the end and close at the Justice Building. The participants are lining up while camera crews ready their equipment. Peeta squeezes my hand tight. He looks handsome. He is in a dark, fitted suit. It makes his eyes sparkle. My dress is long and heavy. I see Peeta eyeing me, and I pretend not to notice, but my skin tingles as I his eyes move down my body.

The parade begins. The Mayor is at the lead, riding a float and waving at the crowds before finally starting the trek across the dam. I wonder how the cameras will play this up. The crowds are small. Not a lot of people live here, and too many are essential to electrical production to attend. I imagine they'll use trick camera angles and maybe some stock footage of screaming crowds mixed in. I know why they are sending the parade across the dam, though. The aerial shots alone will be stunning.

A few of the living victors from 5 participate. One woman has her head propped up in some kind of device. I'm not sure what happened to her, but it looks like the Games permanently scarred her as well. I think of Peeta's leg and swallow the bile rising in my throat. The victors are dressed in costume, not unlike the tribute parade in the Capitol. I'm actually surprised there are still a few alive, given the small number of victors from this district. The float for the victors is garish. While the rest of the celebration has been somewhat muted – what you'd expect of a middle class district – the victor float is ornate in an overdone kind of way. The base of the float is wrapped in a shimmery silver taffeta, and giant shining pillars hold a canopy of tulle overhead. The victors' costumes all match, almost like they are being sent into an Arena. I shudder at the thought.

Finally, it's our turn. Peeta and I are crossing the dam on foot. Cinna has instructed me to press a button hidden in the seam of my bustle before we cross, and warned me _something_ would happen with my dress. Well, it can't be worse than fire. I take a gulp, press the button, and Peeta and I take our first steps. As the fabric begins to flow at the movement of my legs, the skirt begins to spark. Something is wrong. The dress is malfunctioning. It's going to catch fire, and I'm going to burn to death on top of a dam.

I know I shouldn't, but for a fleeting moment I think maybe it will be better this way. Die a martyr. Let the districts fume on that. Prim wouldn't be a target anymore. The only way Prim will ever truly be safe is with me dead.

I quickly realize, however, the dress is not malfunctioning. District 5 produces electricity, and Cinna has made my dress electric. With each step, small bolts of what looks like lightening flash and spark around me. Bolts of electricity encompassing us like a storm. They appear to be harmless, as they've struck both Peeta and me numerous times, but neither of us have burned. I imagine how the aerial shots of this look. Peeta and I, walking across the dam completely electrified. I raise my chin up, but I hear the haunting words of Snow ringing in my ear. _You have provided the spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem._ This dress sends a clear message. I'm embracing the spark.

At least, I think I am.

At the end of the dam, I click the button and the dress stills. Peeta looks at me with a grin on his face. "That was pretty amazing," he whispers. Yeah. Pretty amazing. With a piece of wardrobe, Cinna has told me what I've known in my heart all along. What I've known since Prim's name was called. Since Rue. Since the berries.

I am the spark.

We finally make it to the stage. I see the families on their pedestals across from us. The male tribute died in the bloodbath, I didn't know him, but the female tribute from this district was Foxface. She could have won the Games, had she not eaten the berries. Maybe Cato, Peeta and I could have killed one another on top of the cornucopia, knowing she was out there. She may have outlasted us. I don't know, though. When they collected her body, she was emaciated. Her cheek bones jutted harshly from her face. Her once vibrant hair had dulled; her skin seemed yellowed and jaundiced. As more tributes died, she lost more resources to steal from. Maybe she wouldn't have won. I try not to think about it.

Foxface's family all look very similar. They have auburn hair, twisted into knots to keep it out of their faces. She has a little brother, who is wrapped around his father's leg and refuses to let go. Her mother is a spitting image of what I imagine Foxface would have looked had she grown up. I realize I don't know her name. I look to the cards in my hand. Finch. Her name was Finch. I already shook the boat with the dress. Might as well.

"I want to take a moment to say a few words about Foxface, or as those that loved her called her, Finch. She was a clever, brilliant girl. She played the Games in her own way. She never hurt anyone. She was a survivor. She was the brightest of all of us, I think." I take a slow breath. Suicides happen in the Games. Tributes give up. But no one talks about it. The Capitol doesn't show it. We usually know a death is a suicide when the frame is fixed on another tribute who suddenly hears unprovoked cannon fire. In the Capitol's ideals, a suicide should bring shame to a district, but it doesn't. At least not in 12. Still, we know not to talk about it. "I don't know if she ate those berries on purpose. I'm sure it haunts you every night, not knowing. I know she haunts me. I know she haunts Peeta." I squeeze his hand tight, and his eyes meet mine, morose and unsure. "But I'll say this. Whether she chose to end the Games on her own terms, or whether she acted unknowingly, she was a brave girl. She stayed true to herself in there. The girl I knew was quiet yet bold, quick and resourceful. I found myself frustrated when she outsmarted me, and I'm sure you felt that every day. It must have been a challenge, living with a girl smart beyond her years." I see her mom smile. I know I'm right. "In the end, though, it doesn't matter whether she meant to die or not. What matters is the time you had together. That she loved you. That she never faltered on who she was. Don't let the last thing she did be the only thing you remember her by. She was so much more than that."

I don't know if I crossed the line. If I didn't, I came very close. But when I see her mother mouth thank you, I don't care about the line at all.

We are presented with flowers, blooms bursting in a brilliant red like Foxface's hair. Peeta and I exit into the Justice Building, where our team waits for us. I lock eyes with Haymitch, and I know what he's telling me. _Make a choice. Pick a side._ The problem is there is no other "side." Just me and Haymitch against the world.

On the train, my prep team strips me of my dress and pulls my hair from its intricate styling. My dark, bold make-up is washed away and replaced with something more natural and light. My dress for the evening is simple, yet elegant. I'm certain it doesn't spark or catch on fire, which is a relief. When Cinna comes in to apply the finishing touches, he asks me quietly, "Did you like the parade dress?"

"Of course she liked the dress!" Octavia exclaims.

"It was absolutely brilliant!" Flavius says.

"Just stunning," adds Venia, not to be left out. But Cinna's eyes never leave me. Did I like what the dress meant. What the dress said.

"It was perfect," I reply, and Octavia claps her hands.

I meet Peeta in the breezeway before the grand ballroom, and a smile creeps across his face. "You look… elegant." It's the right choice of words. The gown is a creamy satin, with lace along the edges. Cinna added a lace headband, and I almost feel like royalty the way Peeta is looking at me.

"You seemed to like my other dress a bit more," I state, remembering the ways his eyes ran all over my body.

"Well, the other dress sparked. But you look like you right now. Fancy, but I still see you."

We breeze through dinner. I try to tame some of the mess I made by acting excessively affectionate with Peeta. He reciprocates in kind. He knows I'm trying to compensate for earlier. We sway to a ballad on the dance floor, and I feel the eyes of the room on me. An idea pops into my head.

"Let's get out of here…" I whisper in his ear.

"Katniss, we still have a couple hours. I don't think we should waste this opportunity with the cameras," he whispers back.

"Sneak off with me," I ask. Peeta nods his head. I drop my hand from his shoulder and keep the other weaved with his. I pull him from the ballroom and down the hall. I'm looking for a small room, hidden but not too hidden, when we come across the coat closet.

"Need to pick up your coat, miss?" the attendant asks. Peeta pays him to leave and pulls me into the room.

"So, now what?" he asks.

I press my mouth hastily to his and kiss him hard. He pulls my bottom lip with his teeth and I sigh into him. "Wait," he pants between kisses. "Are we faking this? Is this for show?" He moves his lips to my neck. The feeling of his mouth on the sensitive skin at the nape sends shivers up my spine.

"Yes," I moan. "It's for show. Let's get caught." I pull his shirt loose from his pants and slide my hands onto his skin.

Peeta's voice becomes husky. "Okay," he says, and presses me into the wall. My lips are swollen and sensitive, and he caresses my mouth with his tongue.

"Just kiss me until someone shows up," I say, losing my breath with every stroke of his hand on my hip.

"What if no one shows up?" he asks, running his tongue along my jawline and pulling the strap of my dress from my shoulder.

"Just keep kissing me," I order, and I start fumbling with his belt. I slide my hand along his bare stomach and I feel mine tighten. Peeta's voice catches in his throat, and his eyes dart up quickly to mine.

"Katniss, I think we should…"

"Excuse me!" We hear from behind us, and Peeta spins around.

"Oh, it's the star-crossed lovers!" I hear a woman exclaim as I fumble to straighten my clothes from behind Peeta. "They're over here!" She calls out, and before we know what's happening, a flash goes off and we're caught on camera.

Well, that was the point. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I pant to catch my breath.


	17. 5 to 4

Peeta lays in bed sleeping next to me. I roll on my side and watch him. His golden eyelashes ever so slightly whisk across his cheeks. His breathing is slow and steady; his chest rises and falls with a predictable rhythm.

 _Yes, it's for show. It's for show. It's for show._ I remember the feel of his lips on the nape of my neck. His hand on my hipbone, pushing and rubbing and pulling me into him. My skin alight at his slightest touch. _It's just for show._ I breathe.

Peeta starts to stir and my heart jumps in my throat. His brow is furrowed, his hands knot the sheets. His breathing quickens to near hyperventilation. I don't think he's getting any air.

"Peeta," I whisper, shaking his shoulder, trying to bring him out of it and back to me. "Peeta!"

He jolts awake and looks wildly around the room, his chest heaving with erratic breaths. His eyes land on me and I see the chaos ebb. Relief overwhelms him and he pulls me in close, knotting his fingers through my hair like that's where they belong. I try to do what he does when I wake from a nightmare.

"Shhhhh…" I hush as I hold him close. I rub my hands firmly into the muscles that have knotted in his back, working out the tension. "Shhh, I'm right here. I'm right here. You're here with me." His eyes meet mine and he looks at me desperately, trying to make sense of the shapes that make up my face. "Hi," I whisper, and he exhales before dropping his head on my chest.

"Hi," he whispers back. My fingers trace lazy paths down his back until his breathing returns to normal. I run my fingernails along his scalp, I play with the straw-colored locks on his head. "Katniss?"

"Hm?" I hum, calmed by the feel of his heart slowing.

"Is this… is this for show? So people gossip?" he asks, not looking at me. "Is this real or not real?"

I know the answer, and it scares me to death. "Real," I whisper, and a half smile finds a home on his lips that lingers until well after he's fallen back to sleep.

The next morning, Effie tells us we're headed to 4. "You are in for a treat!" she squeals. District 4 is has a long border with the sea that runs the length of the western side of Panem. It's a career district, which immediately puts me at unease. Their children train for the Games and are often victorious. Their pool of victors is substantial, and their skills unique. Children from 4 are strong, capable, and are usually able to swim and yield a trident skillfully at a young age. Any arena with a substantial water source plays to their advantage, although they don't fare poorly on land either. Because the children here hand weave nets, many are capable of setting traps to capture the other victors. On top of that, they are a wealthy district. I expect support for the Capitol here to run strong.

Effie says it will only take a couple days to get there. I can already feel the anxiety mounting inside me. This is the first district we will visit from which I killed a tribute. The boy from 4 died in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Unlike her district partner, the girl from 4 made her way into the career pack. From the recaps I recall her killing at least one child in the bloodbath, but in the chaos it's hard to tell. She may have killed more. The problem was who she killed.

There's an unspoken rule in the Games. You do not kill your district partner unless you have to. She targeted him the second the gong went off. He clearly wasn't expecting it, and when he fell at her feet she spit on him. I'm sure she was trying to show the other careers she was cutthroat and ruthless. After I saw that, I didn't feel quite as bad about dropping a tracker jacker nest on her in her sleep. Not totally absolved, but a better nonetheless.

Effie tells us there will be a parade in the morning, and in the evening the dinner will be held under a canopy outdoors, weather permitting. Cinna chats incessantly about my evening gown all through breakfast. I've mostly zoned out his specific words, although I find the gentle timbre of his voice soothing. Peeta spends much of the day in the kitchen, baking with the chefs. I find myself wandering alone, trapped with my thoughts for company.

 _Just for show. Just for show._

 _Straddling both sides of the line is just going to get people killed for nothing._

 _Sometimes you know what you are meant to do._

 _It's just another way to keep us divided._

I need to decide what I'm fighting for. I'm frustrated with myself. Prim is always my driving motivation. I love her more than anything in this world, but I can't help reacting to what I see right in front of my face. The troubles that plague District 12 plague the whole nation. People are starving. People are desperate. I guess, growing up in it, you become somewhat numb to the horrors. It's a way of life. No one should become numb to a mother unable to feed her child, but when you are trying to survive, you focus on what's in front of you. I've trained myself to focus on what's in front of me. There has never been a big picture, it's always been the problem directly at hand. Up until the Games, that had always been Prim. Does Prim have clothes? Does Prim have enough to eat? Does Prim have a fever? But this Tour keeps changing the scenery. Keeps showing me more pain. More darkness. More things I want to fix.

I shake my head. I can't save everyone. But I can save Prim.

Well, I can try to save Prim.

Decision made.

I know Haymitch will be disappointed, but I have to wonder if he wouldn't have chosen the same thing if he had an opportunity to save his little brother. I wonder what Peeta will think.

I'm listless all through dinner. I listen to everyone chatting. Effie is particularly excited about District 4. Apparently it's a Capitol favorite. There's even thought of opening a hotel on the sea for vacations, but no one wants to degrade themselves by going to the districts. She says districts as if it's a dirty word. You can take the girl out of the Capitol, but you can't take the Capitol out of the girl.

"Frankly, I don't see what the problem would be. The locals could work in the hotel! Be servants and such. I'm sure they'd be thrilled." Effie catches a sideways glance from Haymitch. "Well, not the Victors, obviously. Really, Mr. Abernathy!"

Even the concept of a vacation is foreign to those of us in the districts, and I chuckle to myself.

"Is something funny, Katniss?" Effie inquires.

"No, sorry," I say, and go back to my oysters. We've been eating delicacies from 4 in preparation for our arrival. I don't really care for the slimy texture, but Cinna and Portia seemed to be delighted by the meal. Peeta must agree with me, and spends most of his time dissecting his dinner roll. I'd recognize his work anywhere. He clearly made the bread this afternoon. Effie would be livid if she found out.

After the plates are cleared, I dismiss myself from dinner. I'm feeling off today. I'm not really in the mood to be social or feign cheerfulness for Effie's sake. When I head down the hall toward my room, I hear uneven footsteps behind me.

"Hey," Peeta says as he catches up. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing. I just didn't feel like being around people."

"Oh. I can go." He turns to walk away, but I catch his hand.

"You're not people." I see confusion cross his face, and I add, "I don't have to pretend in front of you."

"You want to talk?" he asks, resting his hand on my shoulder before giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No, I just want my mind to stop for five minutes," I complain.

"Do you want to sneak outside?" he asks.

"No, we've been at this station for almost an hour. I'm sure we'll be moving again soon," I say, frustrated that we wasted the opportunity to be outdoors eating dinner instead.

"That's perfect. Come on." Peeta grabs my hand and drags me down the hall. He pulls open the door to a utility closet and ducks inside. "Hurry, before anyone catches us."

The quarters are cramped. This space isn't meant for more than one person, and Peeta and I are sharing the space with four brooms, a mop, and a ladder.

"What are we doing in here?" I ask.

"Shh…" Peeta hushes me, putting his hand over my mouth. I hear footsteps in the hall. Two Capitol attendants walk by. "Sorry," he offers, and he slides his hand away. I feel his fingers glide across my lips and my breath shallows. Our bodies are pressed together. My heart beats like it's trying to escape my chest, and my stomach whirls like water rushing down a drain. My eyes drop to his mouth. "You first," he whispers, and I think he's asking me to kiss him before I realize he's gesturing to the ladder.

"Oh, right," I say, and climb up a few steps before I reach a closed hatch on the ceiling. I feel him move in tandem behind me, until his feet slide next to mine on the rung. My back is pressed against his chest, and he reaches up to the giant wheel handle that seals the latch above us closed. He begins twisting it open. I feel the muscles in the arms, shoulders, and chest contract and then bulk against the resistance, and finally the handle relents and he spins it the rest of the way open. I can't imagine I know anyone else strong enough to pry that open. I imagine the train attendants must use a tool.

Peeta throws the hatch open and I climb a little higher, until my waist meets the roof of the train. Peeta climbs up behind me. He presses his back against the outside of the hatch, and his feet brace against the rung of the ladder. "You can lean into me if you need to," he says, our upper bodies exposed to the night while our lower bodies remain safe in the train.

The world is vast around us. The air is tepid, but clear. A giant moon shines down through a cloudless night, and every detail of the landscape is apparent. Dunes rise, and beach grass sways against a slight breeze. The sand is undisturbed. We are technically still in the wilderness that sprawls between districts. This paradise is for sea creatures only. I long to leave my footprints in the sand, a path carrying me away from all this.

The train starts pulling forward, and my eyes widen. Oh! This is what he wanted me to see. The wind picks up from our increasing velocity, and I feel my hair whip behind me. The beach disappears quickly, and the train gains speed in earnest. It barrels forward on the tracks, and from behind me I feel Peeta stretch his arms out into the night. "Woooooooooooooooo!" he screams as the world drops away from us, our surroundings beginning to blur. There is no world out there, it's just me and Peeta and night. The enthusiasm is contagious, and I throw my arms out too. Without my hands on the roof, the wind throws me back into Peeta with some force, and he catches me and wraps his arms around my waist. Our legs are still below, and he's anchoring me. I scream into the night and the wind steals the sound from my mouth, but it still feels freeing. It beats against us until the tears are pushed from our eyes, and finally we cede and crawl back down below. With some effort Peeta pulls the hatch closed, and twists the handle until it seals again.

He's on the ladder right behind me. His skin feels chilled from the air stealing his heat. I spin myself around so I'm facing him, my back pressed against the rungs. His legs and arms are on either side of me, and our bodies press tightly together. Our hair is wild and windblown, our eyes wide and amazed. We are both panting, trying to catch the breath the speed stole from us. Peeta is smiling and looking at my face like he's never seen anything like it. I feel the wide grin stretched across mine, and I wonder if he's right. I don't think I've ever smiled like this.

He doesn't have his breath back yet, but he doesn't seem to care. Peeta pushes his mouth into mine, and I meet it in kind. I tug at his bottom lip gently with my teeth, and I feel him groan into my lips. Despite our icy skin, our mouths are burning hot. He drops his lips to my jawbone, my neck, and I squirm underneath him on the ladder. He presses his entire body into mine, trying to match every inch of mine with his own. My hands drop to his waist and I pull him into me. Peeta pulls his mouth away from my skin and gasps as I grind my hips into him. His eyes shoot up to mine, full of questions and answers. I do it again, with his eyes locked on mine, but they roll into his head. He bites his lips and tries not to make a sound, but it feels good for me too, and when I whimper he loses control and buries a moan in my neck. We keep up the motion with our hips, and my hands leave his waist and travel under his shirt. I dig my nails into his back and he groans again, his mouth a permanent resident in the nape of my neck as he tries to retain control. He adjusts his hips and pushes into me again, and things suddenly feel very different and intense. I cry out, and his eyes meet mine desperately, his mouth burying the noise escaping from mine. He kisses me and moves his hips that way again, and we both quiver. Again and again and again. We try to cover the sounds fleeing from our mouths with kisses, but the quiet sound of him groaning into my mouth is making it that much harder to stop. I cling to the ladder behind me. Our pace picks up, and with it our desperation to reach something we both are chasing.

"Oh god, Katniss, I have to stop," Peeta pleads, trying to still his hips. I push myself against him defiantly, and I feel heat rushing from his body with nowhere to go. "Katniss, I can't," he begs, but his hands cling to my waist as I only increase the pressure. "I…" he tries to spit out, but I press my mouth to his. I drop my hands to his ass and pull him into me hard, and I feel him shatter. The space between us becomes wet, and he quickly turns away from me, his body quivering and jerking slightly. "Oh god, I'm sorry," he says, but I just wrap my arms around him.

"That was fun," I whisper in his ear.

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding unsure of himself.

"Yeah," I whisper. _And not for show_ , I think.

His breathing slows, and his body falls back into mine. I feel his back rise and fall against my chest as he tries to calm down. Finally, our breath finds a rhythm, and my chest rises and falls with his.

"Peeta," I whisper.

"Hmm?" he responds, his eyes closed, his body heavy against mine.

"I chose Prim." I murmur the confession with some shame.

"Okay," he sighs.

"Are you mad?" I ask.

"No," he replies.

"Are you disappointed?" I say.

"No," he says.

"Are you surprised?"

"No."


	18. District 4 Pre-Dawn

Peeta and I spend most the night talking in bed. Strategizing the best ways we might convince Snow. We do pretend Q & A's and quiz each other on some stock answers we've come up with. We learn everything about each other's families so it's obvious we didn't spend the months between the Games and the Tour apart. Peeta's oldest brother is Bannock. He's quiet and serious like his mom, but kind like his dad. Peeta says he's the smartest of the whole family, which I tend to dismiss. The middle brother is Rye. He's a habitual class clown and constantly getting in trouble. Neither of his brothers bake well, that seemed to be passed on only to Peeta. He grins sheepishly. It's obvious he's proud. It's adorable.

Peeta doesn't talk much about his mom. "You wouldn't have spent much time with her anyway, even if we weren't ignoring each other," he says indifferently. Peeta adores his father. He smiles when he talks about him, and tells me stories that are probably useless on national television, but endearing here in the intimacy of my bed.

I tell him about my mom and dad. My father's death. He knew a lot of details already. He'd been watching me from afar for a long time. I feel stupid that I've paid so little attention to him. It's lopsided to say the least. I go on and on about Prim. He laughs to himself.

"What?" I ask, smiling.

"I feel like I know more about Prim than I know about you," he smiles back. It's probably true.

I tell him about Gale's family. As my cousins, Peeta would have been spending time with them. I laugh telling him about Posy – her tiny hands always covered in some kind of mess, tugging at my hair and giggling.

"You smile more when you talk about Hazelle than you do when you talk about your mom," Peeta says.

"So?" I ask defensively.

"Nothing. I'm not implying anything, Katniss. It's an observation. You must really love her a lot," he says. I do. I love all the Hawthornes. Gale is the oldest, then Rory, who is basically a carbon copy of Gale, much to his chagrin. Rory has a fiery personality and is judgmental, but he carries Gale's good traits as well – generosity, honesty, a sense of duty. Vick is younger; playful and optimistic, but exceedingly shy. Posy is the baby, and I can't help but adore her. I miss when Prim was that age.

"So tell me about Gale," Peeta says, trying to play it nonchalant, though I can see the unease in his eyes.

"We don't have to do that," I reply, trying to dodge the subject.

"We have to. Outside of Prim, he's the most prominent member of your family. He had lots of camera time during the interviews. It would seem weird if I was in the dark," he offers, and I know he's right.

"Gale is…" I take a deep breath. I'll need to tread this ground carefully. "Gale is protective of his family. He's a caregiver first. I think had Vick been reaped, he probably would have volunteered just like me. It's killing him knowing Vick is in the reaping bowl alone next year. I think he's the only person I know who wasn't relieved to be ineligible." It hits me suddenly. My stomach drops. I feel sick. I feel physically sick.

"Katniss, are you okay?" Peeta asks, leaning into me. I'm sweating. My face is flushed. I'm actually going to be sick. I run to the toilet and vomit. Peeta follows me in. He sweeps my hair from my face as I heave again, then lay on the floor. The cold tile steals the heat beating my cheeks. Peeta lies on his belly next to me, his face across from mine. I can't tell him. The listening devices will pick it up. I'm okay with them listening to us try to please Snow, but they can't hear this. Almost as if reading my mind, Peeta says, "Do you want a shower?" I nod, and he turns the water on full blast. The room fills with steam and noise. I sit up, and Peeta presses his cheek on mine, his mouth at my ear. "What is it?" he whispers, barely audible even this close to me.

"Prim. That's how he's going to do it. He's going to reap her," I whisper back. Peeta pulls away from me and look me in the face. He knows I'm right. I'm not in the reaping bowl. Victors are exempt. There is nothing I can do.

"Well, we'll just have to convince him then, okay?" he says, stroking his hand in my hair.

I nod, but I'm defeated.

I end up showering. Peeta closes the toilet lid, sits and talks to me. That's my seat. That's where I braid my hair when he's brushing his teeth. I realize we've fallen into a routine. A comfortable routine. It's more than him just being my friend. And it's more than just passionate exchanges followed by days or weeks of sterility. It's more than being survivors. It's more than finding comfort in each other. I don't know what it is, but it's more than the black and white of who we are and the circumstances around us.

It's somewhere in the gray area, and that terrifies me.

He tells me about his dad again while I wash my hair. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I try to calm down. The shampoo smells like lavender and I close my eyes and dunk my head under the water. I hear Peeta's words, muffled and incoherent against the stream flowing over my ears, but present. I shut off the water and wrap a towel around my body. He keeps chatting while I brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair. I braid my wet hair away from my face. Peeta brought in some fresh nightclothes from my dresser, and he looks away as I put them on. By the time we go back to my bedroom, dawn is already creaking through the window.

"What time did Effie say breakfast was?" Peeta asks.

"I don't care, I'm sleeping until she comes in here and drags us out," I reply, dropping my body to the bed.

"Okay," he agrees, and pulls himself in next to me. I lay on my side and he curls his body into mine, his chest against my back. Kind of like on the roof a few hours ago, but down here it feels closer somehow. He drapes his arm over my stomach. I find his hand and knot my fingers in his.

I fall asleep dreaming in gray.


	19. District 4

It isn't Effie who wakes us up. A mere two hours later, my prep team is flittering around my bed. I wake Peeta, who is completely out. He didn't even take off his leg last night, so he swings himself out of bed quickly and escapes down the hall, but not before kissing me on the forehead. I hear Venia sigh wistfully and I try not to roll my eyes.

"Here, we brought you some fruit to eat while we get you ready. We told Effie we had an early start for you, so she's not expecting you at breakfast," Octavia chirps. I smile at her gratefully and begin peeling an orange while they brush out my hair and begin their work. Flavius is feeling inspired and turns my tresses into long waves that cascade down my back like a waterfall. I normally don't pay much attention to what they do, but it really is beautiful. Flavius catches me admiring his work in the mirror and blushes furiously. They didn't need to cover for me with Effie. They didn't need to check on me when I woke up with a night terror. Most of the time, I don't give them a second thought.

"Why don't you come to dinner tomorrow?" I ask.

"Oh, we'll be at the festivities tonight, don't you worry!" Flavius say, adding a few final pins to my hair.

"No, not tonight. Tomorrow night. On the train," I reply.

The three of them are all a flutter. Tweets of "oh!" and "my!" and "dear!" fill the air.

"It's not a big deal," I try to pacify the chaos of exclamations.

"We'd love to, Katniss!" Venia gushes.

"Venia!" Octavia interrupts, giving Venia a cautionary look.

"What? She invited us!" she retorts, returning quickly to the task at hand.

My make-up is dramatic, but fitting for a parade. Blues sweep from my eyes and make my gray irises almost look misty. They dress me and Cinna makes his way in for the finishing touches. The blue gown cascades around me. The fabric is light as a feather and at the slightest movement or breeze it ripples away from me like waves from a stone dropped in a still pond. Cinna places a bejeweled, thin headband in my hair and it sparkles in the light.

"Done," he whispers, squeezing my hand. Guilt finds its home in a lump in my throat. I know my decision will disappoint Cinna, but I need to keep my loved ones safe. Prim. Gale. Posy. I can't sacrifice them for a cause unlikely to succeed. I won't sacrifice Prim for anything. I suspect this lump won't leave my throat today. I'm not sure what kind of reception I'll receive in District 4, but I killed their tribute. I expect the crowd to be drenched in support for the Capitol, support for the Games.

Effie enters my room to escort me down to the parade. When she takes me in, she gasps in amazement. "Katniss, you look absolutely stunning. I can see why your prep team needed extra time with you!" Octavia gives me a little wink, and I follow Effie out of my compartment and to the start of the parade route. I was foolish in expecting this parade would be anything like the one in District 5. This district is a Capitol favorite. Each living Victor is mounted on their own private chariot. They chat among one another. The coziness makes me uncomfortable, as if they are conspiring, but then I remember what Peeta, Haymitch, and I must look like to an outsider.

The parade begins with fanfare. A marching band leads the procession, jubilantly playing the anthem of the Capitol on endless repeat. Their instruments shine brightly in the sun. The mayor leads the procession of floats. Victor after victor is paraded down the street before our chariot finally surges forward. The wind rustles through my hair and I can feel it gently waving down my back. My dress trails behind us as a banner, rippling and fluid like the waves crashing on the beach. The blues flow together, giving the train the dimensional feeling of water. Cinna is clever. Peeta turns his head to look at me. His crisp, azure suit makes the blue of his eyes even more noticeable, but more than that is the emotion behind his gaze. He's in love with me.

I feel the rest of the world drop away from us. The chariot courses forward, and I'm reminded of our first parade. The tribute parade. I remember Peeta taking my hand. He's always loved me. He's said so, and I'd have to be naïve not to know that by this point, but the way he's looking at me now… He's not in love with the idea of me. He's not in love with a persona of myself that I've put forward. He's not in love with false affections and empty words. He knows me now. He's seen the real me – the ugly, selfish, despondent piece that is the real me, and he loves me anyway.

He's in love with me.

"Hi," I say, realizing we haven't even greeted each other yet. Everything about the Tour is so mechanical now that we just go where we're directed and say what they tell us to. Peeta gives me a lopsided grin.

"Hi," he says back. He leans in close, the roar of the crowd drowning our words. "You look beautiful," he whispers in my ear. I know it will read well for the cameras, but it's not about that now. My hand slides under his chin and I pull him into a kiss. Soft. Gentle. Slow. Like the ones we have to say good morning, or good night. The ones we share when no one is looking. I think Peeta feels a shift in me, because when he slowly opens his eyes to meet mine again, there is a spark between us. I think he's seeing something in me he hasn't seen before. Something I don't recognize. I'm not sure it's the sound of my heart beating in my ears, or if the crowd has hushed around us, but I feel like it's just the two of us here in this moment.

The chariot reaches the Justice Building, and our team is waiting to bring us inside. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous!" Effie cheers, clapping her hands. Cinna makes a few adjustments on my wardrobe. Peeta follows Portia across the room to adjust the hem of his pants before our speeches.

"Either you've fallen in love with that boy, or you've made a choice," Haymitch says under his breath. Cinna gives him a sideways glance, but continues bustling my train. I meet Haymitch's eyes directly. We don't need words. I think I see disappointment take residence in his brow, but as quickly as it appears he shakes it. "Okay, so here's what we are going to do. That love bird act on the chariot was perfect. There were cameras everywhere, so we can bet images of this parade will plaster televisions across Panem for days. It eases up the pressure on the speeches and dinner, but you still need to be on top of your game. Don't get lazy, sweetheart."

"All set," Cinna proclaims, rising from his knees. Haymitch turns his back to me and walks away. I try not to let it affect me, but it's not working.

"I'm sorry," I say to Cinna. "I didn't mean to let you down."

"You didn't," he replies without a second thought.

"But I…" I start, but bury to words before I say too much. It's likely this whole place is wired. Cinna places a hand on each shoulder.

"We all have our own battles to fight," he says, looking me directly in the eyes. "Besides, I don't think anyone noticed you tore the dress." I didn't tear the dress. This is a cover.

"Either way, I'm sorry," I say.

"Showtime, girl on fire," Cinna replies, and with that Peeta and I are out on the stage.

The crowd is massive, but I quickly realize my assumptions about this district were unmistakably flawed. Instead of overwhelming support for the Capitol, the undercurrent here is tangible. Anger. Fury. Rebellion. They scream our names, but not in support of the Games. In support of us – symbols of defying the Capitol. They celebrate our victory, our disobedience, our defiance. Panic surges within me. Prior to taking the stage, I couldn't get the fact that I killed their tribute out of my mind. That they'd probably hate me. Now, more than anything, I wish they did.

My mouth feels like it's full of cotton, but I manage to get through my speech. Glory and power to the Capitol, forevermore. Then it happens. Someone in the crowd boos me. The shouts of encouragement turn to jeers. They aren't angry I killed a daughter of District 4 in the Games, they are angry I'm pandering to Snow. They feel betrayed. This isn't helping calm a rebellion. If anything, I've just made an enemy of myself on both sides.

The crowd surges forward, toward the stage, and when the Peacekeepers intervene, they don't back down. While we are presented with our gifts – tokens to take home from District 4 – I see a man's face cracked open by the butt of a Peacekeeper's gun. We are hurried inside before the chaos fully erupts. Through the doors we can hear shouting and uproar from both the people and the Peacekeepers pushing back on one another. I'm concerned there will be a full-blown riot until the crowd suddenly silences. My eyes dart to the television monitor to witness what's going on outside.

One of the victors has mounted the stage. He skin is bronzed and his hair is golden and beach-stained. He has raised his hands in the air, palms out, and both the rioting citizens and Peacekeepers turn their attention to him. I expect a great speech. I expect a show of force. I expect…

"Friends, now is not the time to quarrel!" he bellows over them.

There are murmurs among the people, and then they passively turn away and empty the square. I have no idea what just happened. The doors open and the Victor marches through them, fuming. He locks eyes with Haymitch and the two of them walk away from our group.

"Well," Effie says, as though the world isn't crumbling around her. "That leaves us two hours to get ready for the dinner. Katniss, Peeta?" She gestures with her hand that we follow her. I give Peeta a look.

"We'll be right behind you, Effie. The mayor asked that we drop off our tokens to be preserved before the journey home," Peeta lies. We've gotten good at communicating without words.

"Normally I do that!" Effie frets.

"I think he's a fan of Katniss, and knew he wouldn't get any one-on-one time with her at dinner tonight," Peeta elaborates.

"Oh, I see. Well, don't stay too long. I expect you on the train in less than 20 minutes!" she orders.

"Of course," I say. Once the rest of our team follows Effie to the train, Peeta and I immediately dart in the direction we saw Haymitch go. They've gone up a flight of stairs, but Peeta's first step, the wood groans with age.

"Peeta, I need you to stay here," I whisper. He gives me a concerned look, but knows he's not going to change my mind.

"Just… be careful," he says. "I'll stand guard."

I slip out of my heels and sneak quietly up the stairs. My hunter's skills are heightened as I pursue my prey. I inspect room after room until I spy a sofa with a pillow slightly out of place. I sneak inside and hear hushed whispers from the other side of an office door.

"They listen to you. They follow you. The Capitol sees that you have control over the people that they don't have. You just painted a target on your back," Haymitch berates the man.

"I stopped them from fighting!" he retorts.

"You stopped them from fighting _now_. Don't think for a second your choice of words fell deaf on Capitol ears. No fighting now, because they know there's a _when_ coming," Haymitch insists.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? A riot now would undermine everything," the victor asks, desperation evident in his voice.

"I don't know, Finnick."

They are both quiet for a moment and I know I need to find cover. I duck behind a floor length drape hanging from one of the windows. The office door opens. The two are about to leave when Finnick places a hand on Haymitch's chest.

"Wait," he whispers. I feel Finnick survey the room, one hunter to another. A current hangs heavy in the air and I hold my breath, willing my body still as stone. His eyes sweep the room, pausing over me for a moment before moving on. "Nothing," he says, and they exit.

I hear them meet Peeta at the bottom of the stairs, who makes up a lie about wanting to meet Finnick and speaks as loudly as possible without drawing suspicion. Peeta's telling me to run. They'll be expecting us together. I need to beat Haymitch to the train. I look out the window - I'm two stories up, but there is a balcony below. I take a deep gulp of air and shove the glass pane up. I hike up my dress and curse the fashions of my gender before straddling my way out the window. I hang my body outside the wall. I'm a good 4 or 5 feet from the balcony, but I'll certainly make it from my angle. I muster some courage and let go. I collapse onto the balcony, willing my body loose so I don't injure myself. The thud echoes in my brain, but I shake my head and push myself to my feet.

I take flight toward the train, running until I feel like I might collapse. When I reach the platform I find a seat and try to catch my breath. I only have a minute to recover before Peeta turns the corner with Haymitch. I stand and wave at them. Haymitch gives me a disapproving look before entering the train. Peeta raises his eyebrows at me. "Later," I insist, trying to not pant while my lungs scream for air.

My prep team readies me for dinner. Despite the meals on the train in preparation for this district, the foods still feels foreign to me. We don't have shellfish, or octopus, or shark in District 12. Everything tastes the way it smells – briny, like the sea. Sweet and savory sauces adorn each plate; acidic citrus fruit and melted butter complement the flavors of dish. Peeta's arm remains protectively around my waist most of the meal, and I feed him bites of my food. We are in overdrive trying to compensate for this morning, but my mind is reeling. Snow must have known this would happen, or suspected it at least. Maybe they believe we are in love, maybe they don't. It doesn't really matter when it comes down to it. The fact is - we defied the Capitol. Peeta can see that I'm not there with him. I'm lost in my mind. He tangles a hand in my hair and slides his cheek along mine.

"Let's not think about it tonight. Let's just be glad we are here. Come to the beach with me." He gently places a kiss under my ear before pulling his face away. We duck away from the party. I suspect we'll only have a few minutes before someone comes to find us. I kick off my shoes feel the sand beneath my feet. A warm breeze blows in off the ocean, and the waves crash against the beach in a constant rhythm I try to set my breath to.

"Can you swim?" I ask. Peeta laughs.

"Of course not. Where would I have learned to swim?" I take off my shawl and toss it in the sand. "Katniss?" Peeta's voice rings over the night air as I step toward the water. The first wave sweeps over my feet and then retreats, pulling the sand out from beneath my toes. The lake never moves like this. My lake is quiet and still, but here, the waves are exhilarating. I take another step forward. "Katniss?" Peeta calls again, the urgency building in him. I'm up to my waist. I feel the waves push and pull against me. My dress tangles in my legs and moves with the tide. I take a gulp of air and dive in. I don't swim, I just let the ocean move me. I want to feel like something bigger than me, than us, than humans is in control. I want to feel the ocean. For one second, I want to forget this terrible situation and feel weightless.

When I come up for air, Peeta is already in the water. "KATNISS!" he screams as he reaches me. When he sees I'm alright he pulls me into his chest. His entire body is trembling. "I thought I lost you," he blurts out. The ocean moves around us, but we are standing steadfast, our legs in the sea and our arms in the night air.

"No, no," I try to calm him. "I can swim." I press myself into him as hard as I can. I squeeze my arms around his body. "I'm here. I'm here," I try to soothe, but he struggles against me.

"You can swim?" he blurts out, anger heavy in his voice.

"Yeah, I can swim," I say, not sure why I need to defend myself.

"Well, maybe you might have shared that with me _before_ you went drifting into the water!" Peeta yells as he turns away and begins storming out of the water.

"What is your problem?" I shout at his back. He turns around to face me, chest heaving.

"What's my problem? I thought you just figured out how to keep your sister safe, Katniss. I thought you might slip away from me, twenty feet in front of me, and there was nothing I could have done to stop you! You made sure I didn't know how to swim before you got well out of my reach. I know you've thought it. That if you weren't here, Snow would have no reason to target Prim. Well, that's not an option. You aren't leaving me!" He's yelling, out of breath. Tears well in his eyes and his bats them away furiously.

"Is everything alright down there?" a voice calls from the beach. My eyes adjust to the night and I see Finnick slowly making his way down to the shoreline.

"We're fine," Peeta spits out callously, but the contempt is more directed at me than Finnick. I finally reach the shore. My dress is heavy and clinging to my body. It leaves nothing to the imagination. Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it over my shoulders, offering me some modesty from the wandering eyes of a District 4 victor.

"Alright," he says, hands in the air. We push past him and walk back to the party, but not before I hear him mutter, "You look better in that soaked dress than you did in that curtain." I scowl at him over my shoulder. The evening is coming to a close. We get stares as we walk through the crowd, our hands clasped together tight, making our way back to the train.

That night I lay in my bed alone, thinking about what Peeta said. I have thought about it. That the simplest way to save Prim would be to take me out of the equation. But I'm not the kind of girl to fill her pockets with stones and disappear into the ocean. If I go out, I go out fighting for what I believe in. My door creaks open, and light from the hallway spills into my room before it quickly closes again. Peeta walks to the edge of my bed and hesitates.

"You don't have to stay with me if you don't want to," I offer in a hush. Guilt hangs heavy in my tone. He can go. I'll just not sleep tonight. Peeta crawls in bed next to me, but keeps his body straight. He keeps to himself, like there's an invisible line between us. He faces out, his back to me.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. He's silent. I'm not even sure he's breathing. "Hey," I whisper, and I hear him blow out a slow, shaky breath. I curl my body into his. I press my chest to his back, nook my knees behind his. "I'm not leaving you."

"For now," he whispers into the night.


	20. 4 to 3

District 3 is directly west of District 12, so we have a great deal of traveling ahead of ourselves. Effie chatters on about District 3 over breakfast, although she doesn't really need to. They focus a great deal on District 3 in school.

First, because they are so integral to the advances in our society. District 3 creates electronics. Some are lauded inventors, and without the work that goes on in that district, Panem wouldn't be the most technologically advanced nation in history. I can't help but wonder if aggrandizing like that is outright propaganda or not, but I tend to believe it. Their advances are as diverse as people's imaginations. They make electronics, yes, but on top of that they create systems for weaponry and flight, medical equipment that heals unhealable wounds, even luxury items like self-warming towels and contact lenses that change color with your mood. Haymitch told me the last time he was there they were trialing a teleportation machine. I laughed, but he raised an eyebrow at me. He wasn't kidding.

Second, because their history is a lesson in retribution and punishment. In the rebellion against the Capitol that led to the Dark Days, District 3 was the first district to rise against the Capitol. They had been a wealthy, prosperous district, and their genius proved them to be threatening adversaries in the uprising. When the Capitol crushed the rebellion and the districts fell, the favoritism previously bestowed on District 3 was revoked. While they are by no means the poorest district, their people live in poverty as punishment for the wrongs of their ancestors. Life is miserable.

The train barrels east while Effie continues her lecture. She's enjoying her role as teacher, and I get the idea Effie does not get much attention for her mind or wit. Most people see here as a one-dimensional being. I'd be lying if I said I didn't see her that way at first. But she has immersed herself in district history to prepare for the Tour. She's learned local customs and cuisines. She's studied the architecture of their buildings, population and production statistics, dialects and politics. She's an unfailing dictionary on the important people in each district, and can without fail name every mayor, spouse, and victor by sight before she's even been properly introduced.

Peeta's been keeping to himself. He still comes to me at night, but we don't talk. He stays in my bed, or I go to his, but during the days he locks himself in the art car. He comes to dinner with wet hair, clearly washing the paint from his body before our meal, or else face the wrath of Effie Trinkett for coming to dinner with dirty hands.

When my prep team doesn't show up for dinner the first night, I think nothing of it. To be frank, I sort of forgot I invited them. But by the third night, I'm determined to get them in the same room as everyone else. The next morning, I stop by the kitchen. I stand awkwardly outside the door. I'm certainly not a desired guest. I hesitate before knocking.

"Come in!" the head chef barrels out, and I duck inside. The large man is bent over the counter, finely chopping something green. "What can I do for you, Miss Everdeen?" he asks jovially, his moustache moving with each word.

"Umm… my prep team is eating with us tonight. I wasn't sure if that affected your plans or not. I just wanted to make sure you knew." I spit out.

"You invited your prep team to dinner?" Peeta asks. I hadn't even seen him there, at the counter by the back wall. He puts down the dough he had been kneading and wipes the flour from his hands. He almost looks like he did in the bakery on Sundays. White tee shirt, gray slacks, apron smudged in the ingredients of the day. Just looking at him feels like home. I try to shake the feeling.

"Yeah," I stutter. "Do you have a problem with that?" Why am I being defensive?

"No," he smiles. "I think it's nice."

I smile back. Okay. Baby steps.

I spent last night thinking a lot about Peeta while he slept next to me. I watched him breathe, his chest slowly rising and falling in a rhythm that sings me to sleep. I realize the problem between us. He doesn't trust me. I trust him implicitly, but he doesn't know whether he can rely on me or not. For the big stuff, yes. I've put my life before his countless times, and he's done the same for me. But the little things – Am I going to hold his hand? Am I going to retreat? Am I going to push him away? He doesn't trust me. I don't blame him.

I take off to find my prep team. I'm assuming they are in Peeta's stomping grounds, since I've never come across them when wandering, but after searching his whole end of the train I come up empty. Then it dons on me – they heard me screaming in the middle of the night. They must be near my room. I take off back toward my end of the train, and keep my eyes peeled. A few doors down from mine I notice a sealed entrance. It looks plain. I'm not sure how I missed it before. I tentatively knock.

"Well, it's about time!" Flavius scolds as he opens the door, but his face quickly shifts from impatience to surprise. "Katniss! I didn't expect to see you here."

"You never came to dinner," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Well, we just thought it might be better if…" his voice trails off. "We assumed you didn't actually mean it." Over Flavius's shoulder, I spy Venia and Octavia sharing a couch, flipping through fashion magazines. I walk past Flavius and meander inside. The room is actually quite large. There are bedrooms off to the side, a large living area, and a small kitchenette with a table.

"Is this where you eat?" I ask.

"Most nights, yes. Unless we are at one of the district parties!" Venia boasts, pleased with her VIP status out in the districts.

"Well, tonight you are eating with us. I already told the kitchen," I say.

"We couldn't possibly impose like that," Octavia says, and the hopeful look on Venia's face tarnishes slightly.

"I insist," I protest.

"Did… did you ask Effie?" Flavius inquires, his fingers twisting nervously at his corkscrew curls.

"I don't need to ask Effie. I'm a Victor. This is my Tour," I reply, and turn on my heel. They respond to status and attitude, so that's exactly what I'm giving them.

"Okay, we'll be there," Octavia finally agrees.

"Good," I say, and walk out of the room.

I sneak to the dining car early and set up some extra chairs before heading back to my room. It's Sunday. I think about Gale, out in the woods without me. I drop on my bed and close my eyes, willing myself to see the forest, to smell the scent of pine and oak. To feel the ground, soft and forgiving under my tread. I see Gale sitting on our rock. I see the glint in his eyes as he tosses a berry into his mouth. He smiles at me, and wipes the juice stain from my chin. His fingers linger for a moment. I miss him. I'm making the right decision, keeping him safe. I can't lose him to Snow.

I get dressed for dinner and am first seated. I want to be here when my team arrives. Cinna and Portia enter, bubbling on about whatever exciting idea they are working on for District 3. There is no parade here, so I doubt I'll be electrocuted or turned into a living wave, but they always seem to have something up their sleeves. Haymitch arrives next and drops into the seat next to me. He sneaks some liquor from his flask into his glass before Effie arrives in a flourish.

"You'll never believe the day I've had!" she exclaims, waving her hands in her face as if it were a million degrees in here. Peeta shows up, still with a hint of flour in his hair. He sits next to me, and pulls back when I try to dust his bangs. We're still not okay. I wait with bated breath. At two minutes of, my prep team enters. They are overdressed, to say the least. Octavia and Venia both wear gowns, each with earrings and other adornments that would be laughable anywhere but the Capitol. Flavius wears a neon teal suit with a lime green tie and jeweled cufflinks.

Effie is on her feet at once. "What are you three doing here?" she shrieks.

"I invited them," I say, rising to my feet to meet her.

"Katniss, it's not proper! It's not protocol!" Effie fumbles. "The help eat in their rooms!" Octavia is clearly uncomfortable and fidgets as she takes her seat.

"They aren't the help, they're my guests. They're my friends," I insist, before sitting again. Effie wants to protest, but there is no precedent for this. A few times she begins to speak, finger in the air, but then swallows her words and finally resigns to straightening her silverware.

Despite Effie's stubborn silence, dinner is actually pleasant. No one else seems to be offended by their presence, and if anything it's made Peeta a little looser toward me. At one point, he places a hand on my knee, and then remembers he's mad at me and quickly removes it. After the meal concludes, I can hear my prep team raving about the night all the way down the hall. "Wait until my mother hears that she called me her friend!" "She called all of us her friends." "Well she was looking at me! Imagine, friend of Katniss Everdeen!"

I smile to myself and grip the knob of my compartment door before I sense someone behind me.

"That was nice of you," Peeta offers. I turn around to face him, my hand still stretched behind my back, safely on the handle.

"Well, they're real people, you know," I say, throwing his words back at him. Not throwing them back, really. Showing him that I listened. That I remembered. That I care about what he thinks, what he says to me.

"What are you trying to prove?" he asks, his eyes narrowing playfully.

"That I'm worth it." The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them. I can't believe I just said that. What does that even mean? A smirk forms across Peeta's lips.

"Okay," he says, and turns to walk back to his room.

"Can I come over?" I ask his back, and he pauses his step. "Tonight? Can I come over?"

"Yeah," he says, without turning around, and then he leaves. I go to my room and brush my teeth. I comb and braid my hair before throwing on some pajamas. I waste time in my room, waiting for everyone to go to sleep. I don't know why we still sneak around, but we do. Maybe it's out of respect for Effie. An acknowledgement that we shouldn't be doing what we're doing.

After the train seems to quiet, I open my door and creep down the hall. When I reach Peeta's room, I turn the door handle and let myself inside. He's already sleeping. My chest tightens in disappointment, but it's probably better. I feel like I might have done something stupid tonight. Instead, I lift the covers and crawl in beside him. His body shifts. Peeta rolls on his side and opens his eyes, heavy with sleep. "Hey," he says blurrily, before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into him. Apparently sleeping Peeta has forgotten we're not okay right now. His breathing slows and he's out again.

My heart slams in my chest. My breathing is shallow and everything is on fire. Peeta curls his chin into my neck and his hot breath on my skin almost makes me sigh. I bite my lip. Peeta's hand rests softly on my hip and I start tracing patterns on it with my fingertips. I feel him stir, ever so slightly, and I know he's awake. He flips his hand so our palms touch and his fingers lightly trace my hand as mine ghosts over his. He could move, but his body remains pressed into mine. I roll over slowly. Our heads share one pillow, our noses are separated by a space no wider than a sheet of paper. My fingers continue gliding over his skin, my touch as light as a feather. He mirrors me, his fingertips drifting across my body. I run my hand up his arm. I explore him. Peeta's hands slide down my waist and linger at the hem of my shirt.

My breath quickens. I see Peeta gulp before he slides his hand under my shirt. My hand stills on his hip. His fingers glide across my stomach, and I feel it knot under his touch. I slide my face closer on the pillow, and slightly under Peeta's so our cheeks are pressed together. I can hear his breath heavy in my ear. I try to calm my own, but my breathing becomes more ragged as his hand journeys up. He traces each of my ribs delicately with his hand, never heavier than leaf drifting across the surface of a still lake. When he reaches the base of my breasts, I hold my breath in anticipation. He slides his hands over me, and I let out a quiet whimper before I feel him quiver between us.

I drop my hand from his waist and it traces up and down the length of him through his shorts. His breathing is short, and he hums a moan into my ear before he brushes his thumb across my nipple. I gasp slightly, and he does it again until it's hard between his fingers. And as quickly as his hands wandered to my chest, they disappear. I slide my hand away from him, and he bites his lip as they graze their last path down him before finding safety at my sides. I roll back over, and he curls himself into me again. He squeezes my hip tight, and I push back into him. He groans into my back before pulling his body away from me. We lie on our backs next to each other, staring at the ceiling, panting slightly. It's not safe to touch each other.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he exhales.

I just let the question hang in the air. It's hours before either of us are calm enough to fall asleep.


	21. District 3

It's raining when we pull into District 3. I'm not hungry at breakfast. Peeta's being distant again, and I'm feeling frustrated. It's like we're playing roles – daytime on the train, when he's giving me space and forcing me to make all the decisions; nighttime in our rooms, when we just drop whatever is going on between us to survive the night, when mistakes get made; and anytime a camera is on us. I'm so tired of switching masks depending on who is watching.

My clothes for the speech are simple, yet refined. It's bitterly cold out, and Peeta wears a thick knit sweater that compliments his broad shoulders. There is a canopy over the stage, but the citizens of the district will be standing in the plummeting rain, breath turning to fog as it escapes their mouths and dissipates into the frigid air. There couldn't be a greater contrast between the beauty and splendor of 4, and the misery of 3. When we take the stage, I close my eyes for a moment and shut out their suffering. I see Prim, laughing and picking flowers on her way home from school. I see Gale smile, sun peeking through the forest leaves browning his skin. I breathe in.

"You okay?" Peeta asks. It's the first thing he's said to me since we left his room this morning.

"Yeah, let's do this," I reply.

We step forward. The families of the fallen tributes stare at us from their respective platforms. Cato killed both the tributes from this district. In the bloodbath, he skewered the girl with his sword. I remember watching him use his foot to push her off his blade in the recaps. The boy I felt partly responsible for. He was clever, which is the best defense someone from 3 can possess. He booby-trapped the Career's supplies with mines he dug up from near the platforms. If I hadn't blown up their supplies, Cato might not have snapped his neck in a fit of rage. I shake the thought from my head. That's stupid. Cato would have killed him at some point.

I wonder how the boy's actions played in the Capitol. Were they angry with him for using the bombs as a weapon? Certainly it was never the Gamemakers' intent for the explosives to be in play in the Arena. Would 3 pay for his ingenuity?

My eyes fall from the families to the crowd. I feel it here. What I felt in 11. And 8. And 4. The churn of resistance. Their eyes look up at me, not with strife, but with hope. I try to fight back my desire to help them. To be the change they want to see. My hands tremble at my sides, and Peeta notices and weaves his fingers in mine. I step toward the microphone before the silent crowd. I hear the heavy raindrops thud against the canopy above me. I feel the chill in the air vibrate with expectation. Most of them have ashen skin and dark hair. They could be Seam folk, if they lived in 12.

"Thank you to the Capitol for bringing us together today. I am honored to bring glory to your district, and all of Panem, by meeting your people. By celebrating the strength and virility of the Games, we celebrate the strength and virility of the Capitol." The faces in the crowd shift to confusion and I feel sick. I don't celebrate the Games. I want to tell these people to have hope. I want to tell them to stand up for each other. To stand up for their ideals. To fight back. I close my eyes and try to visualize Prim's face, but instead I hear their confusion shift to anger. I hear a thud and open my eyes to view a potato roll at my feet. Someone threw this at us.

"Tell us what you really think!" a woman screams from the crowd, followed by others. "Sing, Mockingjay!" someone else cries out. I feel Peeta shift protectively in front of me. He finishes the speech from the cards, and by the time we wrap up what were once murmurs of discontent have turned into calls to violence. The uproar is quickly devolving into a riot. We don't finish the ceremony. The Peacekeepers rush us inside. We can hear screaming and shouting on the other side of the doors, along with other sounds of chaos: the crack on wood on bone, rocks hurled at walls, a window smashing, the sound of glass shattering onto the marble floor. The sharp pop of gunfire begins and we all drop to the ground, covering our heads. Haymitch wraps an arm around Effie and leads our way out of the room. We all follow. From the back of the building, we rush to the train station, accompanied by foot soldiers in white. I look over my shoulder and see the square has melted into hysteria. Peeta's hand presses on my back and I run.

We reach the train, and Haymitch pushes Effie inside first. The rest of us follow suit. Our clothes are drenched and we're all struggling to catch our breath after the sprint. Effie looks ghoulish with her make-up dripping from her face like a wax mask melting near a candle. Her wig falls lifelessly from her head, leaving her natural auburn locks to cascade loosely around her shoulders. Effie flees to her room, and we hear her compartment door slam closed. Haymitch follows.

"You're bleeding," Cinna stumbles, his hands cupping Portia's face. A small gash slices angrily across her forehead, blood pooling out of it and dripping down her cheeks. I rip a piece of my fabric from my skirt and press it firmly to her head. Portia's eyes are wide, frightened and erratic.

"Hey," I say, and her eyes dart to mine. I smile. "It's okay. Head wounds bleed a lot, and it's scary, but it's not that bad. You're going to be just fine, okay?" I hear my mother's soothing voice escape from my lips. "Shhh," I coo, and her bottom lip stiffens. Peeta is grasping Portia's hand in his, and she squeezes back. I hear him exhale. Cinna takes over, and Peeta and I step back. He wraps an arm around Portia's waist and walks her out of the room.

"Thanks," he says, and I shift uncomfortably at the compliment. Haymitch returns, his head hung heavy in exhaustion.

"She locked the door. She'll be fine," he stammers, referring to Effie. He digs a hand deep into his pocket and pulls out a flask. He pours the contents in his mouth and closes his eyes. He focuses on the burning feeling of the liquor dripping down his gullet. Focus. His eyes are on us.

"Well, that was a disaster," he states bluntly. Peeta scoffs.

"What did we do?" I ask earnestly.

"Nothing, sweetheart. You did nothing. You showed up. You lived. You breathed. There was nothing you could have done to stop that from happening," he says. There's no comfort in his voice, and I don't find any in his statement. I'm playing a losing hand. Gale. Prim. I need to up the ante. I turn to Peeta.

"I think you should marry me," I say.

"What?" he asks, as if the words aren't fully registering with him.

"I think you should propose," I insist. The look on his face nearly breaks me. It's a mix of surprise, hurt, frustration, disappointment.

"Okay," he says with resignation in his voice.

"It's just, I think it's the only way to…." I start, but he cuts me off.

"I said okay," Peeta states, and heads out of the room without any discussion.

"I thought he'd be happy," I say, exacerbated with the entire situation.

"Really?" scoffs Haymitch sarcastically. "You thought he'd be happy?"

"Well, I thought he wanted this," I reply.

"Not like this," Haymitch says back, taking another swig from his flask. I look at him incredulously. "He wanted it to be real." Haymitch stumbles out of the room, not off balance but not quite with it either.

I'm left alone, trying not to think of Gale and thinking of nothing else. In go back to my room and run a hot shower. I sit on the floor of the tub and let the water pour over me. I have no idea what's happening outside this train. Likely people are being executed. Hanged or shot, probably made examples in front of the other dissenters. I'm not so sure the same thing isn't happening in 12. I think Prim will be safe, until the reaping at least, but I'm not so sure about Gale. Will he survive this night? I keep waiting to feel the train move, to pull me away from this awful place, but it stays still. I hear a rapping at my door and shut the water off. I wrap a towel around my body and open the door. My prep team enters before I even have a chance to invite them in.

"We don't have much time before dinner," Octavia worries, her pitch even higher than usual.

"Dinner?" I say. "We're not leaving?"

"No! You have all been invited to a private meal in the Mayor's home. Well, not really private. Exclusive. Of course, all of Panem will be watching. Lucky you!" Venia explains as she pulls the towel from my body and begins to dry my legs. Great. Just what I wanted to do right now.

In no time I'm prepped. Since it isn't a gala, the attire is more casual. I'm still in a dress though. I can't wait to get back to 12 and live in slacks until I die, which at the rate I'm going is probably sooner than later. Haymitch tells us Effie is ill and will not be attending tonight, but no sooner has he finished the words than Effie enters the room, a new wig perched on her head even higher than the last one.

"Chop chop, children! We mustn't be late!" she commands in her high, clipped tone. Peeta slips his hand in mine and we follow to the door. "Now, don't forget these!" She chirps, and slips a gold bracelet over each of our wrists. "One of the many delights of being in 3!" Effie exclaims. "It's almost like home!" She steps out of the train into the rain, and no sooner has her head crossed the threshold than the rain starts diverting away from her. At first, I can't see what's going on, but quickly I realize a glass disc is floating over her head. The rain falls from the glass and away from her, keeping Effie perfectly dry. She steps forward and the hovering disc follows her every move. I realize it must be tracking her bracelet. I jump out into the rain and another zips over me. I dart from side to side, testing the thing. It's very responsive. I laugh and see Peeta smirk. Haymitch pushes by and rolls his eyes at me before proceeding down the platform, disc whizzing overhead.

We all make our way to the Mayor's home. We are surrounded by a full escort of peacekeepers. The presence of peacekeepers in this district is like nothing we've seen before. It must be because of the riots, but I almost feel like there's a peacekeeper for every resident. It's bizarre.

Dinner with the Mayor is boring, but at least there is no dancing or music. I don't feel like celebrating tonight. Even my meal makes me self-conscious, but I pick at it politely before pushing my plate aside. Normally, Peeta would be keen on my lack of enthusiasm, but he seems lost in his own thoughts tonight. There are no servants. Instead, the house is manned by robots. They carry trays and whiz by on a single ball in place of feet. I haven't even seen these in the Capitol. The Mayor catches me eyeing them.

"Prototypes," she chimes in, and I raise my gaze to her. "That's why we were so glad to have you in our home tonight. We are thrilled for Panem to see our newest inventions." She goes on to elaborate on the technology behind the devices, and my head starts to feel foggy. I realize I've finished my entire glass of champagne and barely touched my food. I try to focus on her words, but she's clearly a native born of 3. Her narrative on the mechanics of artificial intelligence leaves me feeling inadequate.

Dinner draws to a conclusion, and we all dismiss ourselves fairly quickly. Effie is the first out the door, followed in short order by Haymitch, who found the dinner concourse even more dull than I did. I spied him snoozing through dessert. Cinna left early, after the main meal. He wanted to check on Portia, who stayed behind. Peeta and I try to leave with everyone, but the Mayor keeps us behind to chat about different cuisine technologies with Peeta. I'm antsy. The last time Peeta and I left for the train alone, he was bloodied and beaten. This time we didn't do anything though. Snow can't be mad, can he?

By the time we leave for the train, I'm racing my feet as fast as they'll let me walk.

"Katniss, will you wait a second?" Peeta asks as he falls behind. My pace remains. "Katniss, wait up!" I know he's struggling to keep pace with his prosthetic, but my heart is hammering in my chest and I need to get him back on the train.

"Come on," I say, reaching back and taking his hand in mine. I drag him along behind me, when he suddenly yanks back on my arm. I collide into him, and above us our glass discs collide and shatter into tiny shards that fall around us like snowflakes. Peeta throws himself over me, protecting me from the glass, and it crashes around our feet. In a moment we are drenched, unprotected from the downpour. "What was that?" I yell.

"Stop running away from me!" he shouts back.

"I'm not running away from you! I'm running with you!" I get in his face.

"No, you're dragging me behind like an afterthought. That's not the same thing." His voice is serious.

"It's not like that!" I stammer out. The rain crashes down around us, thunder rumbling in the clouds – not loud but constant, like the roar of an empty stomach. The sky might eat us alive.

"What's it like then?" He stands waiting, and I look at my feet. "That's what I thought." He starts away from me, toward the train.

"Peeta, wait!" I call out. My voice betrays a desperation I'm trying to bury. He turns around slowly, but I can't figure out what comes next.

"Make a choice, Katniss. Him or me. Or no one. Just make a choice, so I know where I stand. So I know what this is. Because right now, I have no idea." I feel awkward at his directness, and I shift my feet. He steps toward me. His soaked clothing clings to his body, making every angle pronounced – his shoulders, his chest, his waist. Rain runs down his face and I remember running my lips over his jaw. I remember pressing my mouth to where his pulse hammered in his throat. "I know I love you. I know you're all I think about. When I'm with you, when I'm not." He catches his breath. "I'm not asking to be all you think about, Katniss. But… do you think about me? At all? Because sometimes I feel like you think it's you against the world. I'm an afterthought. Maybe you don't love me, maybe you can't, but I deserve to be more than an afterthought. So love me, or don't, but make a choice. Tell me what I am. Because I can't be your friend if you kiss me at night. I can't be your friend and know what your skin tastes like." He steps closer, and our bodies almost hum in their proximity. "If it weren't for all this, would you still marry me? Not today, not tomorrow, but someday? Would you marry me?"

His words hang in the air between us, the rain slamming down on the pavement.

"Katniss," his voice is pleading now. "Would you marry me?"

"No." The word slips through my lips like an unwelcome guest. His jaw stiffens, he straightens his back.

"That's all I needed to know," he says. Peeta turns and walks away from me. I feel a sob wrack though my body and it sounds foreign in the rain. I drop to my knees and feel sorrow overcome me. Peeta pauses his gait, as if to turn around. I want him here. I want him to run to me, to drop to his knees, to ease away the pain of honesty the way he eases away my other fears. He stands still, as if fighting with himself, and then starts walking again.

He doesn't come to my room that night. I don't go to his. I lie in bed in my wet clothes and stare at the ceiling. I don't dare close my eyes. I just wait for morning to come, and this horrible day to be over.


	22. 3 to 2

Peeta keeps his distance over the next few days. We'll be on the train for a while. We're headed all the way back to the mountains to visit District 2. District 2 is the favorite district of the Capitol. Here, the Hunger Games are seen as path to glory and honor. The reaping is a spectacle. The person whose name is called never goes into the Arena. The escort is flooded with volunteers, and ultimately the strongest and most capable male and female are named. Although it's not formally allowed, tributes from this district train for the Games their whole lives. While there are other career districts, none compare to District 2. Their victor pool is enormous. I don't know what to expect here.

"This will be an easy one, sweetheart," Haymitch says to me as we drink coffee in the dining car. We're alone. Everyone else finished breakfast and went back to their business. Peeta has hardly left the art car, and when he does it's only to shower or make his way to the kitchen.

"None of them are easy," I spit back.

"Relatively easy, then," he says, not reacting to my venomous response.

"What about Cato?" I ask. I killed their tribute. And Clove was killed partly because of me. Surely there will be some animosity there.

"They want to win, but to them power earns respect. They'll respect you, cheer for you, celebrate your victory, blah blah blah…" Haymitch waves his hand in the air. "So, what happened between you and the kid?"

"Nothing," I reply. He guffaws to himself.

"Sure," he says sarcastically as he rises from the table. "Just make sure you get your act together for Two. He's still in on it, right? Helping?" It hadn't occurred to me that Peeta might not be interested in playing star-crossed lovers anymore. I assumed he meant our nights and days were over, but he'd still perform when the cameras were on. Haymitch reads my face. "Well, you better ask him," he says, before retreating back to his room.

I gather my courage and slowly make my way to the art car. I can do this. Quick. Painless. When I reach the door, I rap my knuckles as if it were someone's room. It's a public space. Any of us could go in. But it feels like Peeta's, like I'm invading his territory. He opens the door and stands there, looking at me. His body blocks the entrance. He doesn't want me inside.

"Hi," I say, feeling foolish now that I'm right in front of him.

"Hello," he says back, more formal than I'd like. Normally I'm the one building up walls between us, but I feel him shutting me out, little by little.

"Um, I guess I just wanted to ask. Well, it's just that we're almost at 2." My words spill from my mouth, disjointed and rambling. "Uh, I was just wondering, um, if you were still going to help."

"Help with what?" he asks.

"With saving Gale. And Prim. With convincing people you love me," I stammer.

Peeta stands up straight. He spins a brush thoughtfully between his fingers. "I've never had any trouble convincing anyone I loved you," he says matter-of-factly.

"So does that mean…" I start but he cuts me off.

"Yeah, I'll help. I care about Prim, too, you know," he answers.

"Okay, because I was just thinking that…"

"Is that all?" he interrupts.

"Oh! Um, yeah, I guess," I blather.

"Good. See you later." He closes the door and I'm left standing alone in the hallway. I raise my hand slowly and rest my palm on the door. I want to knock. I want to go in and tell him to stop being stupid and be my friend. But he's right. Friends don't get tangled in their sheets together in the middle of the night. Friends aren't intimate like we are. And not just physically. Everything about my relationship with him is intimate, even the platonic parts. It's him. I think maybe that's what it's like to be with someone. Then it hits me.

We're together. Not officially. Not formally. Maybe I refuse to recognize it. But we're together. Except now we aren't.

I suddenly feel nauseated. I don't want to not be together. This is bad. I told myself I wouldn't let this happen. The distance is good, then. The distance is good.

At dinner I'm just as cold with Peeta as he is with me. Everyone in the room senses the shift between us, and it makes the meal uncomfortable. People leave as soon as they are done eating. There is no conversation or post-dinner drinks. No one wants to linger in the uneasiness drifting between Peeta and me. I don't either, but two can play at this game. I get up before he does, and leave for my room. Once there, though, I feel useless. I walk around my compartment. I haven't slept since our fight, not really. My bed makes me anxious, so I pace instead. I shower. I braid, unknot, and braid my hair again. I borrowed one of Effie's books, but it's painfully stale and I feel my eyelids droop. I don't think I'm going to make it through the night tonight without sleeping.

Before I know it I drift off, and it doesn't take long for scenes of horror to greet me. Gale hanging from a noose, my token dangling from his neck. You did this, the villagers whisper. I try to scream, but it's pointless here. My throat feels raw. Hold on to that. Hold on to that. That's real.

I pull myself from the dream. I'm panting, and my voice is hoarse from screaming. Out of bed. My bed is not to be trusted. I want to go find Peeta and then I remember. No. Distance. I hear footsteps outside approach my room and stop at my door. I get out of bed and stand on the opposite side. I turn around, press my back into the door, and slide to the floor. I feel pressure on the other side, and my visitor does the same.

"Peeta?" I ask even though I don't need to. I know it's him by his tread.

"Yeah?" he answers.

"Come in?" I say quietly.

"No," he replies. Instead we both spend the rest of the night on opposite sides of my door. Together, but not.

At breakfast I pick at a muffin. Peeta drinks black coffee. We don't look at each other. We arrive in 2 tomorrow. Peeta and I settle in for Effie's lecture, each pretending the other doesn't exist. Effie goes on, oblivious to the atmosphere. She tells us she leaked a story to the press about how we were walking so close in 3 we shattered our rain catchers. Effie doesn't know why we are trying to promulgate our story, but she's certainly helpful with it. Anything to get her victors front page coverage. Her lecture on 2 is actually fascinating. I remember learning in school they were another mining district, but 2 is so much more than that. Haymitch wanders in halfway through the lecture, leans against a wall and bites into a crisp apple.

Apparently, peacekeepers come from 2. Our school textbooks are archaic, and most of the information in them is generic and often as old as the Dark Days, or older even. I had known the district was filled with stone quarries. District 2 is small, despite its enormous population. It is broken up into communities, small villages based around different mines. Where District 12 has division between the Town and the Seam, District 2 is even more segregated. The villages are all highly competitive. In the center of the district is a military compound. I start wondering if Effie is really supposed to be telling us all this, but I don't stop her.

After the fall and eventual annihilation of District 13, the Capitol moved its military operations to 2. Inside the compound are weaponries, training and recruitment centers for peacekeepers, and a small fleet of military-grade hovercraft that supply reserve support for the artillery at the Capitol itself. Effie boasts about this. "Redundancy is paramount to security!" she says with pride.

"So, the peacekeepers are actually recruited from the population of 2?" I ask. Effie looks up in surprise. I hardly ever ask questions at her lectures.

"Not all, but most! Some Capitol citizens choose to serve their country as well," she replies. I can't wrap my head around this. I had always assumed the security force was from the Capitol, but no, it's our own people fighting us. Breaking our will. Making us subservient. It's infuriating. I tune out the rest of the lecture and stew over the whole mess.

Effie leaves, and Peeta follows in short order. I just wait around with Haymitch. Without Peeta, there's really not a lot to do on the train. I've stopped by to see Cinna a few times, but he's in a frenzy trying to get things done for the week we are spending in the Capitol, and I ended up feeling like I was in the way. Frenzy isn't the right word. Cinna's a very calm, calculating person. Organized chaos? Either way.

I end up finding my way to my prep team's area. I knock, and Octavia looks pleasantly surprised to see me at her door.

"What can we help you with, Katniss?" she asks, long eyelashes batting to accentuate each word.

"Umm… I have an interview in the Capitol on my talent. I was going to ask Cinna for help studying, but he's really busy, and I thought maybe you guys might help?" I ask, holding out the flashcards.

"Of course!" Venia chirps from behind. They lead me to the living room, fluttering around me and dispersing the cards amongst themselves. At first I'm a mess. To be truthful, I've been too distracted to study, but it's not too long before I'm getting most of the answers right.

"I still don't understand the difference between satin and silk," I say, rubbing my temples.

"Oh that's easy!" Octavia tweets, sitting on her knees. "Silk is a fiber, like cotton. It comes from an insect and it's stretched and made into thread. Satin is a weave."

"Like a basket?" I ask.

"Precisely! Satin weaves different fibers together. It can include silk, but often times it also has rayon, nylon…. So think of silk as the reed, and satin as the actual pattern of the basket," she exclaims. It's the first time I've actually understood. "Also, if you get stumped – satin always has a shiny side and a matte side, so you can cheat if you need to."

"Octavia, do you ever think about becoming a stylist?" I ask, and she blushes feverishly. "What?" I press.

"Oh, she can't be. She's not in the right class," Flavius adds.

"Can't she take a class?" I ask. Venia and Flavius giggle, but Octavia looks a little sad.

"No class. You have to be wealthy or come from a wealthy family to be a stylist," Venia adds. "We are all in the service class. We can only do service work."

"That's unfair," I state, and suddenly the mood in the room changes dramatically. Their eyes shift around them, paranoia taking over.

"Now don't get hysterical, Venia," Flavius scolds, grasping her hand as her breathing grows more and more rapid. Apparently they don't say critical things about the Capitol. What kind of retribution do they expect?

"I should go," I say, collecting my cards. "Thank you for helping," I add, before darting out the door.

I make trouble everywhere I go.

That night, I don't sleep. I can already see myself regressing into old habits. Keeping my eyes open doesn't stop the awful thoughts, though. I see Venia shaking like a leaf, eyes wide. I wonder what she'd be like as an Avox, unable to speak. I'm sure that's what she feared as she trembled in fright.

No one is safe.


	23. District 2

I would have thought there would be a parade in 2, given the temperate climate and financial prosperity, but the layout of the villages and surrounding quarries makes a reasonable route impossible. I'm glad, really. I don't like being marched around on display, like some doll in a toy store. I smirk at myself. Prosperity. Yes, the people of 2 are not starving. They have clothes. I think some of them even have hobbies, but they are by no means prosperous. I guess my scale for success is based on whether you have children and elderly people dying from starvation in your streets or not.

Instead, we are touring one of the mines. In a way, I'd rather have a parade. Standing outside the entrance, a crew packs on our gear. Jumpsuit. Straps are buckled around my legs and chest. An incandescent lamp is mounted on my head. As Peeta and I load ourselves onto the lift and are prepared to head down, the real panic begins to set in. The lift seems shaky at best, like a wooden deathtrap mounted on a pulley system. I try to keep my breathing controlled, although my heart is slamming into my sternum so hard I wonder if I might have a heart attack right here in this tunnel.

I remember the day my father died. I was in school, and the whole of District 12 shook. It wasn't the same as the normal quakes we get during intentional blasting. My pencil rolled off my desk. Sirens blared. Some parents came to get their children early, but my mom didn't show up. The remainder of us were herded down to the entrance of the mines. It was snowing, but I soon realized the snow was ash seeped down from the sky. I stood there, holding Prim's hand solemnly as the lifts came again and again, pulling wounded men from the mine. But the lifts slowed, and night fell. And my dad never came out.

Standing in this lift now, my legs tremble beneath me. The foreman is giving instructions. I can't hear him over my pulse, but we've done tours in 12 before. I know what he's saying. Keep your hands and feet inside the lift. Don't be frightened when your ears pop. When the lift begins its descent, there is a sudden jolt as the wheels screech free. My eyes bulge from my head. I can feel my heart in my throat now, I can feel it pounding in my ears. What little control I had over my breath I lose, and each intake becomes short and erratic. Only twenty feet down, I'm gasping for air. Tears stream from my eyes down my cheeks. I'm dizzy. I cling to the rail of the lift and try to not vomit over the side.

While it feels like an eternity for me, only a few seconds have passed. We are enveloped in darkness, but Peeta is acutely aware that something is wrong. "Katniss?" he steps forward and my hand slams into his chest. I push him away from me, gripping the rail until my knuckles turn white.

"Don't," I get out. "We're not together, remember?" He steps forward again and I struggle, but it's useless.

"Truce, okay?" he asks. His eyes are full of concern as he watches the color in my skin change in the glow of his headlamp. I'm not getting any air.

"Truce," I gasp out, and he wraps me in his arms. "I can't breathe," I cry, pulling at the straps on my chest. He releases the buckle and I choke for air. Peeta's fingers find their way into my hair.

"You aren't here, Katniss," Peeta whispers, and my eyes meet his. Steady. Calm. "Close your eyes for me." I do, but not being able to see sends my senses into overdrive. My panic heightens. "Listen to me, okay? You're not here. You're in the woods. Can you visualize the trees for me, Katniss?" I do. I let out a shaky breath and I picture the woods by my home. I picture the tall pines shooting up to the sky in a race to meet heaven. I see their roots, shallow and winding on the forest floor. "Tell me what you smell," Peeta says.

"Pine," I sigh. My heart begins to slow.

"Good. The sky is cloudless, like an endless sapphire stretching above you. There is a slight breeze, and you can feel a warm wind across your face, tossing bits of your hair into view and rustling the leaves in a dance only you know." Peeta's voice is soft, quiet. Like a lullaby without a tune. "Can you hear the leaves?"

"Yes," I breathe out, focusing on the brushing of leaf on leaf as they flurry in the wind.

"You reach under a log and find your father's bow. The wood is smooth in your hands. Feel it?" I nod. "Good," he encourages me. "It's Sunday. You need to walk to your hunting spot. Can you do that for me? Can you walk to your hunting spot?"

I feel as if my feet are moving me, even though I'm still in this lift with Peeta. I see the trees grow and disappear behind me as I pass them. The only thing anchoring me to reality is his hands in my hair. I'm not in this lift. I'm not in a mine.

"Gale is waiting. He gives you a big smile, and you head off to check the traps. Just like every Sunday. This is just a regular Sunday in the woods." I see Gale's back as he walks ahead of me. I move my fingers deftly through the ropes, unknotting and retying loops like I have since I was a girl.

I feel a thud and realize we've reached the base of the mine. I open my eyes, and Peeta's steady gaze is on me. We're crouching. I don't know when that happened. His hands shift from my hair and he swipes his thumb across my cheeks, wiping away the tears.

"I just… my dad…" I whisper.

"Just don't let go of my hand, okay?" Peeta reassures me. "Just keep your hand in mine." He weaves our fingers together and pulls me to my feet. "Can you smell the pine?" I breathe in, I let the forest overtake me. There's a giant lever we have to pull to open the doors from our shaft into the tunnels of the mine. Peeta looks at me to ask if I'm ready, and I nod my head.

The entire tour is a blur to me. I hear Peeta ask questions. I smile politely, but I'm in my head. I'm burying my father. I'm watching my mother retreat inside herself. I'm watching my sister wither away. We walk, there's pointing. I nod. When we finally are brought back to the lift, I feel like an entire day has been lost down here. We step inside. I wave cheerfully as the doors close. When we're alone again in the dark, Peeta's hands cup my face. Mine are drawn to his, and I caress his cheekbone with my thumb. One hand drops to my waist, his other remains on my cheek, sliding into my hair.

"You going to be okay?" he whispers. I nod. He pulls me tight into his chest and I feel him take in a breath, hold it, and release. The ride up seems faster than the ride down, and I realize as we approach the surface Peeta's going to let go of me. The us that we were again for a few minutes is about to vanish. I want to do something, say something to keep him with me.

"Peeta, I…"

The doors slide open.

"Truce off," he whispers, and drops his hands from my body. He steps away from me.

"Truce off," I repeat almost inaudibly.

We meet the cameras out front. Peeta gives them a charming smile. He answers questions about the tour in the quarry. We are photographed in our matching jumpsuits before being hustled back to the train for prep and then carted to the Justice Building for our speeches, where the crowds are screaming our names. There is no undertone here. This jubilance isn't a mask for rage. Their cheers of honor are legitimate. Their praises ring true. The Games are celebrated here, championed even. I cannot distinguish easily between Cato and Clove's families. They look the same to me. Being here is almost worse. Both of their children could have come home. One career from District 2 normally means victory, two should have been a guarantee. I try to think of Cato as a villain, but his last moments will forever be engrained in my memory. I hear his screams in my dreams. I see his eyes. He died disillusioned. Defeated. Alone.

We give our speeches, and in my mind I'm counting the words until I can get out of here. Unlike the other districts, the crowds devour the words. They scream back "glory to the Capitol forevermore" like it's some kind of ritual. It makes me sick. When I force a smile to my lips, I feel shame in an entirely new way. I'm joining them. I try to think of Prim, of Gale, but instead my mouth tastes like copper and my throat tries to reject my spit when I swallow.

That night at the feast, the celebration is astounding. While nowhere near a Capitol festivity, no expenses have been spared. There are courses upon courses of food. The band plays music late into the evening. I can't eat, but the champagne is bubbly and it makes my stomach feel alive. I drink three or four glasses, and my cheeks feel like they are burning. I drag Peeta to the dance floor, where we spend most of the evening draped together like teenage lovers. Only when Haymitch finally drags us away do we leave the party for the train. As soon as the cameras are out of sight, Peeta immediately puts space between us. My head feels light. My skin tingles, and the world seems to shift from side to side. No wonder Haymitch likes to drink. It's like a carnival in your mind.

"You better get her to bed," Haymitch says to Peeta, before sneaking a cookie off the dining cart and heading to his room. The narrower hallways of the train prove difficult to manage. I find myself bouncing from wall to wall, my feet uncooperative and the floor unbalanced. When we finally reach my room, Peeta twists the door knob and leads me inside. I plop on my bed and he leans down to take off my shoes.

"Are you staying?" I ask.

"No," he says firmly, tossing my heels aside. "Sit up." I obey and his hand runs my zipper down the length of my back. He pulls the dress from my body, tugs a shirt over my head, and swings my legs into bed. He disappears for a moment and comes back with my toothbrush and a cup. I brush my teeth as best I can. "Spit," he orders, holding out the cup, and after I do he takes the items and puts them away. He returns with a glass of water and places it on my nightstand. "Drink that," he says. I take a few gulps until he seems satisfied. He turns to leave.

"Peeta," I start. I hear him sigh at the door, like he expected this and was trying to escape before I could say anything.

"What?" he says, not turning around.

"We aren't friends," I state.

"No," he replies, still facing the door.

"We could never be friends," I say again.

His voice is quieter this time. "No," he whispers. He turns to me.

"We'll fight. And we'll laugh. And you'll hate me and I'll hurt you and you'll love me until your heart explodes. And we'll kiss and we'll pretend, we'll dance and we'll know each other's secrets. But we'll never be friends," I say. I'm not normally this eloquent. The liquor is finding words in my brain I didn't know went together.

"No, we'll never be friends," he admits quietly. "Good night, Katniss," Peeta says before leaving my room. I close my eyes and try to make the room stop spinning.


	24. 2 to 1

I wake up the next morning with a splitting headache. I don't really remember much about getting to bed. My dress is hung neatly in my closet and my shoes are tucked against my wall. I'm wearing my favorite night shirt. When my eyes glance the glass of water on my night stand it all comes tumbling back to me.

Peeta.

What did I say to him? I'm sure I made a fool out of myself. I quickly dress and head down to breakfast. It looks like Haymitch, Effie, and Peeta are finishing up. Cinna and Portia must have already left.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Haymitch chuckles with a sardonic smirk. Peeta is sitting at the far end of the table. I make my way across the room and take the vacant seat next to his. I reach for the carafe of coffee and he stands.

"Effie, shall we?" Peeta asks.

"Of course!" Effie rises from the table, flattening her skirt with her hands and before following Peeta out of the room.

"What's that all about?" I ask.

"None of your business, sweetheart," Haymitch says through a full mouth. He takes the coffee cake into his hand and strolls out of the room, dropping crumbs in his wake. And then it's just me at the table, drinking coffee and trying to settle my stomach with a scone. I seem to have ostracized them all. I don't know if it's over my decision to play be Snow's rules and appease the districts, or if it's over my falling out with Peeta, but I suddenly feel like I don't have anyone on my side.

The alcohol from last night feels like it's seeping from my pores. I was in such a rush to get to the dining car I didn't bathe, so I head back to my room. Once the bathroom is filled with steam, I climb inside the shower and stand under the spray. I let last night leak out of me, puddle at my feet and run down the drain. I'm purging it from my system. After what seems like forever, I shut off the water. I stand in the shower and feel the drops fall from my body.

I waste most of the day in my room. I skip dinner. Night soothes the train, but I don't sleep. I don't dare to. I sit on my bed and ruminate over the whole messed up situation. I think about Peeta lying on the floor of my bathroom with me after I was sick. The feeling of the cold tile on my burning cheek, the feeling of his hand running slowly up and down my back. I let him comfort me. I haven't been comforted since I was a little girl. I don't let people do that, but I let him lie there next to me. I let him see me like that. I think of sitting on the closed toilet braiding my hair while I watched him brush his teeth. I think of our routine. I think of the way he'd knot his hands in my hair. The way he'd open the window before crawling into bed with me. The way he'd listen while I rambled on about Prim.

My hands start to sweat and I wipe them on my pants. I pop out of bed and pace around the room. This is bad. This is very bad. I only have so many people I can worry about. I saw what happened to my mother after my dad died. I know I share some sort of proclivity to her weakness, because after the Games I'd hide in my closet most of the night to avoid the nightmares that visited my bed. I just wasted an entire day in my room. I can lose time, just like she did. I need to keep my mind alert. I can't be thinking about him like this. I need to focus on saving Prim, on saving Gale, on finishing this Tour and getting home.

Still, I need to talk to Peeta about what I heard in 4. It's not fair that he's making a decision to help me save Prim without knowing all the facts. That it's more than just Haymitch. That other victors – Chaff, Finnick – other victors are talking about rebellion. Timing. How did Chaff even get to 8? From what Effie told me, he's from 11. These victors are able to move about districts. They are able to disseminate information. What if this is bigger than I thought?

Even if it were, it's pointless. What, a few rogue victors against the Capitol? I saw 2. We don't have an arsenal. We don't have a fleet of warcraft. We don't have an army. We've got some angry, bitter people with scorn on their side. Best bet, there is a coordinated riot between the districts, which would easily be squashed out by a few scores of peacekeepers. I'm not risking my sister for that. I'm not risking Gale.

Still, Peeta should know.

I wander the halls and find myself loitering outside the art car. The light glowing from inside is escaping into the hall through a crack at the bottom of the door. He should be sleeping, but clearly some night terror sent him here. I open the door quietly, my stomach finding residence in my throat. Peeta's standing back to me facing a canvas. I can't tell what it is yet – mostly ambiguous depths of grey. He's paused, assessing the painting.

"Hi," I say, and his back stiffens. He places his brush in a can of water and turns to face me.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He's neutral. Not aggressive by any means, but not welcoming either.

"I, um.." I felt confident back in my room. Or determined anyway. But now, standing here in front of him, I'm not sure what I came here to say. I'm realizing the entire pretense for finding him tonight is flawed. We can't talk about what I heard in District 4 here. But it's not all I want to say. "I wanted to talk about last night, I guess."

"Okay," he says, not offering to take the lead.

"I just… Well, I don't remember exactly what I said, but I remember the gist of it, and I wanted to say I didn't mean it," I ramble.

"What did you mean?" he asks.

"We can be friends," I say, and Peeta scoffs under his breath. "What?" I ask, frustration seeping into my tone.

"Katniss, we can't be friends. We tried. But things… they just went too far, and I don't think you actually meant any of it. Or maybe you meant it, but you didn't know what exactly it meant, and on my end that's kind of the same thing," he says.

"I meant it," I say, stepping forward.

"Meant what?" he asks, looking me directly in the eye. This is my opportunity. Just… say the right thing. You know what to say. Just say it. But all I do is swallow my courage and stand there mutely staring back at him. I can't be thinking about him like this. Coming here was a mistake. "That's what I thought."

"Peeta, I…"

"Why are you here? Why can't you just give me some space? Let me at least try to get over it," he states, aggravated with me.

"Because I don't want you to get over it!" I spit out. The words are out of my mouth before my mind has even processed them, but now they hang between us and I can't take them back.

"What?" His voice is quiet, still.

"I don't want you to get over it," I whisper, not because I know what it means, but because it's true. He stares at me. I can tell he wants to step forward, but he's not. He's keeping his distance. He's offering me to come to him, but I just stand there. I miss my moment, and he pulls away from me. Another wall up.

"Well, I guess I know where that leaves us," he says.

"Where does that leave us?" I ask.

"Nowhere," he says, and grabs his brush from the paint can. He swirls it in a coal-colored grey on his palette, and raises it to the canvas. I'm dismissed without words.

I retreat back to the door and pause. "Are you still going to propose to me?"

He turns around and meets my eyes. "Yes, I'm still going to propose."

"Thanks," I manage, and slip out of the car.


	25. District 1 Train Station

We pull into District 1 in the early evening. Peeta and Effie have been so busy conspiring we don't start our lecture on District 1 until we are already in the station. There are no events until tomorrow, so it's not a big deal, although Effie acts as though the world might come to a halt. Peeta and I sit quietly side by side, but not touching. District 1 is the crown of Panem, literally. They are responsible for luxury items, such as jewelry, silver, china, crystal… all things even the wealthiest citizens in 12 could never afford, save a Victor. Being a Capitol favorite and one of the wealthiest districts, District 1 is a Career district. I feel that same familiar fear lodge itself in my chest. I didn't kill people I didn't have to. The earlier districts were hard, but most of their tributes fell to Careers – early and brutally. I felt mostly pity and compassion. But as we start visiting the Career districts, there's blood on my hands. I killed these people. I killed their children. My hands suddenly feel dirty and I wipe my palms on my pants. Peeta notices my quiet distress and reaches his hand over and weaves his fingers through mine. Effie turns her back to us to find a book, and he leans into me, his chin on my shoulder.

"You'll get through this," he whispers, and squeezes my hand. As quickly as he is there, he's gone again, inches away and hands to himself. I go to my room and get ready for dinner. I splash water on my face and let it drip from my skin as I hang over the sink. I know we don't have any festivities today, but being in 1 at all makes me uneasy.

In the dining car, Cinna, Portia, and Haymitch are speaking jovially around the table. Effie and Peeta are conspicuously absent. Seeing the confusion on my face, Cinna smiles. "They had some business to take care of in One tonight, but they'll be back in a few hours." I eat quietly. Cinna attempts to cheer me up, and I offer him a feeble smile. His confidence in me is unyielding, regardless of what path I choose. I know Cinna wanted me to stand up. He wanted me to fight. But Cinna doesn't hate me for choosing Prim. When dinner is over, everyone files out but Cinna, who stays behind with me.

"You want to go outside?" he asks. I know what he means. Do you want to get away from the listening devices. I nod my head. We find the exit and jump out of the train. The attendants are used to us taking walks by now, and they don't send guards as long as we stay in sight.

When enough distance has passed, Cinna sits on the rail. "Okay, spill it," he says, hands on his knees.

"I don't know," I say sullenly, sitting beside him.

"Try," he says. "Just say words and see what comes out of your mouth."

I sigh. "Okay. I don't…" Just say what you really think. "I don't like myself very much right now. I'm selfish. I'm difficult. I don't know where along the way I lost myself. You seem to be the only person I can talk to. With everyone else I just shut down, or put on a front. It's exhausting," I mumble, burying my face in my hands.

"Even Peeta?"

"Especially Peeta," I say, then add, "lately."

"Well, first off, you're not selfish. Look at what got you here, Katniss. You volunteered to save your sister's life. People like to think they'd do the same, but when it comes down to it, no one really does. When was the last time someone volunteered in 12?" I break his gaze uncomfortably. I don't take compliments well. He gives me an earnest smile.

"Doing one selfless thing doesn't mean I'm not selfish," I reply, kicking the dirt.

"You do lots of selfless things. Partnering with Rue, inviting your prep team to dinner, watching after your family. Peeta says you've taken it upon yourself to feed practically all of District 12," Cinna offers.

"Anyone who came from the Seam would do that," I dismiss him.

"Has anyone done it yet? Look, sometimes you do selfish things. We all do. You just need recognize them when they are happening, and try to make a change," he says.

"I don't know how to change," I answer stubbornly.

"See, now you're being difficult," Cinna teases, cracking a smile.

"I already said I was difficult," I smile back, but it fades. My mind drifts to the riots. The undercurrent of rebellion that's crested under the whole Tour. "I can tell Haymitch is disappointed in me. I know you are, too. I want to help. I see the injustice. I've lived it. But… it's not enough. I can't sacrifice Prim for some half-brained idea shared by a few victors." I don't know where this is coming from. I've always been a girl of few words. I internalize everything. But something about Cinna – his openness, his warmth, his kindness – he brings something out in me that I like.

"Haymitch isn't mad at you, he's mad at himself," Cinna says, but I brush it off. "What if it were more than that?" he says quietly, looking away nonchalantly, keeping his shoulders free from tension, his brow free from concern. His body doesn't say conspiracy to an onlooker.

"What?" I ask quietly.

"What if it was more than a few victors encouraging riots?" he asks.

"What are you saying?" I push.

"You could do more than you think, Girl of Fire." Cinna rises from the rail and offers me a hand up. We walk back to the train in silence. Inside, he heads back to the garment car. I wander around and end up in the lounge. I turn on the television. I hope maybe the cameras are back in 12. That I might catch a glimpse of Gale, or Prim, or my mother. Instead, the cameras are fixated outside a shop in 1. Reporters swarm the storefront like bees at the base of a hive. I wonder what could be going on, when I see Peeta and Effie emerge from inside. Cameras flash and questions abound. "Peeta! Peeta! Is that what we think it is?!" desperate reporters crow. Peeta slips a small box inside his pocket. I shut off the TV immediately.

We are in 1. I should have put two and two together. I feel guilty, spying on this moment he wouldn't want me to see. Then I remember it's not real. He probably doesn't care whether I see it or not.

I can feel him slipping from me. About an hour later, I hear Effie and Peeta arrive back on the train. Peeta goes to his room. It's an early night for him. I want to go talk to him. To thank him for going through what he did today, but that's not going to make him feel better, just me. I think back to Cinna. Make a change.

I head to the kitchen. Dinner has been over for hours, and the room is vacant. I duck inside. I cut some bread, add meat and cheese. I'm sure he's hungry. I'm about to leave when I notice a block of chocolate on the counter. I find a pan and melt the chocolate on the stove. I add heavy cream and stir until the consistency looks right. I pour it into a mug. I'll come back and clean up after. I make my way down to Peeta's room. I hesitate for a minute before I knock.

"Come in," I hear Peeta call from inside. I open the door and he comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Oh, I thought you were Portia," he says, toweling his hair. He eyes the food. "What's that?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd had dinner." I set the food on the table and place the mug of hot cocoa next to it. He walks over and peers inside the mug. "Did you make this?"

"I tried," I stammer at the floor. "I'm not sure if it will be any good, I didn't really know what I was doing."

He takes a sip and grins. "It's really good. Thick."

"I didn't see any milk so I used heavy cream," I explain. Stupid.

He looks at me for a second, taking me in. I'm not sure which one of us put it up, but a wall falls down from between us. "Thanks," he says.

I smile demurely before making a hasty retreat. There. Something nice instead of something selfish. I feel better already.


	26. District 1

Cinna's dress for the District 1 parade is stunning, but heavy. To say it's adorned in jewels is an understatement. The dress shimmers. Every piece of fabric is covered. The jewels are tiny, like coarsely ground salt, but they sparkle and reflect the light when I move. It's as if I'm made of stardust. When Peeta comes around the corner to meet me, I stop in my place. His suit is fitted to every cut of his body. He looks like he's been sculpted from stone. I find my eyes lingering over him, and when I meet his I realize I've been found out. I blush feverishly and pretend to adjust my bodice.

"Portia and Cinna have really outdone themselves," I say, looking up at him. Portia's right. He's gotten taller. The cameras come around the corner to film the parade preparations, and Peeta leans into me. My heart slams into my chest as I playfully reciprocate. I straighten his collar. He whispers in my ear. The crew pans away from us and the pretense drops.

"Looks like we're up. You ready?" Peeta asks, climbing onto our float and reaching his hand down to me. He pulls me up beside him, and the entire length of the parade we play up the star-crossed lovers routine. Flowers fall at our feet. Peeta gathers them into a bouquet and offers them to me on one knee. The crowd goes ecstatic thinking he might propose, but when he stands again they wistfully sigh, almost in unison.

At the Justice Building, the speeches go according to plan. The crowd seems mixed to me – some euphorically supportive of the Capitol, others cheering as if they are thrilled to see the symbol of resistance. Others still seem like they may just be buying our love story and are enamored with our union. It's really confusing and I'm not totally sure how to pander to them. Luckily, Peeta does most of the talking. He praises the strength of their tributes, the pride they felt for their districts, but he also edges his voice with some mourning at their passing. Their deaths haunt me, but I do not mourn them. Maybe in the end, Cato found his humanity, but Marvel killed Rue. I'll never see him as anything less than a monster. Maybe a monster molded from circumstance, trained to kill, his benevolence stomped out of him as weakness, but he killed Rue. He killed Rue.

I shut my eyes. I see her lying there. Tiny. No bigger than Prim. Spear protruding from her body like some kind of flag you stab into newly claimed earth. I haven't slept much in the last few days, but I know I need to avoid sleeping tonight, or I'll kill him over and over and over. I feel my breakfast rising from my stomach and I swallow hard. Peeta smiles over his shoulder at me and he can tell something is wrong. He waves a quick goodbye, wraps a hand around my waist, and pulls me inside. The doors close in time for me to vomit all over the floor. Everyone rushes forward, except Effie, who is afraid of splash back. She shrieks her concerns from afar. I'm sick again.

"Okay, okay, let's go," Peeta says as he ushers me into the ladies room.

"Peeta, you can't go in there!" I hear Effie cry out as he closes the door behind him. I drop in front of the toilet and heave a few more times. I didn't eat much for breakfast, nerves getting the best of me, so soon I'm just dry heaving which is painful and unproductive. Peeta wets a towel in the sink and runs it along the back of my neck.

"Done?" he asks gently, and I weakly nod my head. He flushes the toilet.

"Was it Rue?" he asks, running the towel over my forehead, wiping away the caked make-up from my face.

"No. Maybe? I don't think so," I utter as I swallow.

"Are you pregnant?" he asks.

"What?" I practically shout.

"Well are you?" he presses.

"How could I possibly be pregnant, Peeta?" I ask. I mean, he was there.

"I don't know. Gale?" he says quietly. He's serious.

"I kissed Gale. One time. That is it. That's as far as anything ever went. You are the only person I've ever… _done_ anything with," I ramble. I see guilt wash over his face, and another wall goes up between us. This one I put up.

"Can you stand?" he asks, offering a hand. I rise without his help. At the sink I wash my face. I cup my hands under the water and sip it into my mouth, swishing it around before spitting it down the drain. I'm feeling much better, physically at least. It must have been something I ate, something that needed to be purged from my body.

I walk out of the bathroom, Peeta trailing behind me. My team is outside the door. Over their shoulders I see a janitorial team cleaning the mess I made.

"Are you okay?" Cinna asks, concern etched on his face.

"Yeah, I'm feeling a lot better," I respond. We head back to the train, everyone slowing their pace to meet mine.

"Dinner isn't for another few hours if you'd like to go lie down," Effie offers. I take her up on it and dismiss myself to my room. I'm only there for a minute before my prep team shows up.

"I was just going to lie down," I say, exhaustion in my tone. I don't want to be primped right now.

"We heard you were sick!" Octavia twitters, her resonance even higher than normal.

"Yeah, I…" I don't finish. Before I know what's happening my team is undressing me. Venia deftly unclips the many fasteners holding the heavy dress in place. It falls from my body in one quick motion. Octavia works on wrenching me out of the structured undergarments the dress required. Flavius is pulling pin after pin from my hair. He brushes it out and ties it in a quick knot on top of my head. Venia brings a cloth and wipes down my body while Octavia pulls a nightgown over my head. The whole ordeal is over in maybe a minute.

"Brush your teeth," Flavius says, and with that they are all out the door.

I don't even know what happened that was so fast. I stare at the closed door and feel tears well up in my eyes. They are my friends. Those flighty, simple-minded, garish-looking people are my friends. They don't expect anything from me. They don't want anything from me. They just care about me. I smile at them through the door.

I'm afraid to sleep, but I manage to drift off into nothingness. I'm only out for an hour at most, but when I wake I feel much better. And I'm very hungry. I get out of bed and sneak down to the kitchen car. I knock gently before the head chef calls me inside. He offers some crackers and a fizzy drink made with ginger root. I take both and curl up on a coach in the lounge, quietly chewing and ruminating over the day like a cow chewing on cud. I'm feeling… different. Light.

I get ready for the dinner and meet everyone on the train platform.

"Do I need a raincoat?" Haymitch deadpans.

"I'm feeling better, thanks," I reply, sticking my tongue out at him.

"Katniss! You're going to smudge your lipstick!" Effie cries, pattering her way to me with a fresh tube in hand.

As we approach the dinner, Peeta slips his hand in mine. When I squeeze his, Peeta's eyes dart up to me with some confusion. I offer a small, genuine smile, which he returns. The dinner is endless. Course after course of food, which I ravenously devour.

"Shouldn't you slow down?" Peeta asks as I pull a server aside and ask for another round of whipped maple sweet potato.

"I'm really hungry," I state, dipping my finger into the top of my sweet potatoes and wiping a smudge on his nose.

"You did _not_ just do that," he says with a wide grin on his face. Peeta's hand swipes his own pile, and he wipes a smudge of food across my cheek. We're both giggling and drawing curious eyes of the patrons, but I don't care. He takes the cloth napkin from his lap and wipes my cheek, then his nose. "You're a deviant," he says, shaking his head. We lock eyes for a minute, and we both know. That was a real moment.

We spend the next few hours dancing and making the rounds to the different VIPs Effie points out to us. There are victors everywhere, but for the most part I avoid them. I don't feel like I have anything in common with these people. They are Careers. They are killers. I guess I am, too. I shake the thought from my mind. I'm not going there tonight.

Peeta and I take the floor for a slow song. The music is hypnotizing, and I find myself leaning into him, eyes heavy. I feel Peeta's body stiffen beneath me and pull back. I've crossed a line. I look up to his face, and I notice a small wince fading from his face. He's in pain.

"Are you hurt?" I whisper.

"No, I'm fine. We can keep dancing," he says, returning his hand to my waist but never relaxing his body. He remains taut, every muscle stiff and alert. He's in pain.

I stand on my toes and bring my mouth to his ear. "Sneak away with me," I whisper.

"Katniss, I don't think this is a good idea," he says softly.

"Come away with me," I breathe, weaving my hand in his. He follows me out of the room. I walk down a long corridor and cut through an open door. We sneak down another passageway and up a small flight of stairs.

"Katniss, no one is going to find us here," Peeta says as we encounter a small library. We go inside and close the door. I pull down the blinders to offer us some privacy.

"That's sort of the point," I reply, turning back to him. He sits on a desk in the middle of the room. "Tell me what hurts." Peeta looks away from me. "Is it your leg?" His silence answers my question. I drop to my knees in front of him and begin rolling up his pant leg.

"Katniss, what are you doing?" he asks, his body frozen at my touch, his muscles clenched. I ignore him and continue until I've cuffed his pants at his lower thigh. I stand. His prosthetic is exposed, and he blushes furiously as he looks away. I remember him sitting on the river bank, bleeding out and telling me he didn't mind if I saw him. The modesty he lacked then is in full gear now. I swiftly remove his leg, and his eyes dart to my face. "How did you know how to do that?"

"I've watched you," I say, not looking up from his leg. It's red and irritated, but there is no sign of infection. The skin is not broken. It just looks worn and sore.

"I was on my feet all day with the parade, and then dancing, and there wasn't a lot of rest time between Two and One," he tells the wall. I can feel heat radiating from his leg. My hands are always ice. Peeta used to tease me for it. I slide my fingers around what was once his leg, and he retreats. I can almost see his stomach flip as he looks at me desperately. "You don't have to do that. You don't have to touch me there if…" his words die out as I slide my hands back over his leg. He exhales in relief. The coolness of my hands robs the heat from his leg, and I can feel his body relax into me. I begin rubbing my fingers slowly into the muscle that meets the end of his stub, and a groan escapes his mouth. His head drops onto my shoulder and he moans and grunts slightly as I increase the pressure, massaging away the pain, stimulating the blood to flow again. My fingers grow warm as his leg stops burning. We stay this way for a while. He turns his face into me slightly. His long, slow breaths tickle my neck. "Why are you doing this?" he whispers.

I remember those words in the cave.

Say it. Say it. Say it. Instead, I answer one question with another. "We were together before, weren't we? Before Four. We were together, right?"

He sighs into me. "Yeah, we were together."

"Did I make you happy?" I ask, my hands coming to a stop. He picks his head up off my shoulder and looks up at me.

"Yeah, you made me really happy," he says. I look at him. I really look at him. I look at his blue eyes, piercing yet calm. His lashes are gold, almost translucent. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I lean forward and kiss him. Softly. Deliberately. His hands slide up my back and linger at my neck. Our mouths move together, languid and slow. Remembering each other, until I finally I pull away from him. He looks at me, lost for a moment. I lean forward and press my mouth to his ear.

"I'm going to earn you back," I say in a hushed tone, almost inaudibly. But I know he heard me, because a smile breaks across his face that I haven't seen in a while.

"Okay," he whispers. Peeta reattaches his leg and we start to sneak our way back to the Great Hall when we hear whispering from around a corner. We both press ourselves against the wall and creep forward.

"We need to tell them. They need to make this decision on their own," Cinna whispers.

"They're kids. They shouldn't be involved in this. They've been through enough," Haymitch replies with frustration in his tone.

"I thought you wanted them in on this?" Cinna asks.

"I do. I did. But they aren't ready. Look at them. She's screaming through the nights. The kid's filled an entire train car with paintings. They are struggling to get by after what's already happened to them. We can't use them. If we do, we're no better than the Capitol," Haymitch spits out. "They're just kids. They're my kids."

"This is different and you know it. And it wouldn't be using them if they were the ones making the choice. All I'm saying is we tell them. If Katniss had the choice, she'd want to know. You know that," Cinna replies. "I won't keep lying to her. She deserves more than that from us."

They move farther down the hall, and their words become inaudible. Peeta and I lock eyes.

"What was that?" he says.


	27. 1 to The Capitol

The Capitol. When the train pulls away from District 1, my anxiety piques. Have we done enough to convince Snow? What were Cinna and Haymitch talking about? Is there an actual revolution in the works? We have a week in the Capitol before the feast at the President's Mansion. Effie has packed our days with interviews, public appearances, and ceremonies - any chance to get our faces in front of a camera. We'll be there in two days. I try to swallow but everything hurts.

I pace around my room. I wanted to stay with Peeta tonight, but it would just be to make myself feel better. He's not ready for that and we might rush into things. I think about Cinna's advice – try to change. So instead I'm pacing. I leave my compartment and wander. I try to stay on my side of the train. Maybe Peeta's out wandering too, and I need to give him space. I can't earn him back by smothering him. I pass the kitchen and notice the light is on. The door is slightly ajar, so I push it open quietly and slip inside.

The head chef is hunched over the prep table, precisely slicing a carrot with a sharp blade. When I look at his handy work, it looks like he's carved a shooting star. The tail is shaved, and when he holds up the carrot it curls beneath the star like one of Flavius's orange ringlets. He looks up and sees me admiring his work.

"Practicing for the feast at the Capitol. I've never been so nervous. This is my first time as head chef at the President's Mansion!" he says to me with a friendly but nervous chortle. I can't see his lips move under his gigantic moustache.

"I'm Katniss," I say stupidly, standing at the door.

"I know who you are, lady!" he smiles brightly at me.

"I know, but we never were introduced," I say.

"Well, we wouldn't be. I'm staff," he chuckles amiably, his belly shaking beneath his chef's jacket.

"Peeta made a point to come meet you," I state.

"Mr. Mellark's a good boy," the chef responds, and then heat flushes to his face. "Not that you aren't, lady, I just meant…"

"It's fine," I say.

"I'm Cheshire," he says, wiping his hands on his apron before offering me one. It's a funny name, but I've come to expect most people from the Capitol have odd names.

"Do you think you could help me with something? I want to do something nice for Peeta," I ask, hoping I'm not too much of an inconvenience.

"I can't imagine I'd be much help. What do you need?" he asks.

"Well, I'd like to make him a cake," I explain. "A small one, not anything huge."

"Oh, lady, I'm no pastry chef…" Cheshire stammers.

"I'm sure you're better at it than me," I press. He smiles bashfully. Or at least I think he is, based on his cheeks cherrying above his moustache.

"Okay. Well, come back tomorrow night, about this time, and we'll make a cake!" he offers as he sets his massive hand on my shoulder.

"Thanks," I smile back. "And… nice carrot."

 _Nice carrot?_ I know I don't talk to people, but my inability to hold a normal human conversation is astounding. This is why I only talk to Cinna. And Peeta sometimes.

The next morning Peeta is cordial with me at breakfast. Not flirtatious, but not cold either. It's a start. I'm exhausted. I really haven't been sleeping much, and I feel like this Tour has come full circle. Effie reminds us to pack our things today as we will arrive in the Capitol in the early morning and we will immediately be leaving the train.

In the afternoon, I walk down to the last car and sit on one of the benches. There's a kind of peace here, watching the world rush away from you. If only it weren't so frightening what I was hurdling toward. I think about Prim. She's probably home from school already, doing her homework. She's such a studious girl. She always completes her homework before she'll do anything fun. I used to tease her about it relentlessly.

I'm not sure why I just thought about our life together in the past tense. I _used_ to tease her.

My head hurts.

Gale will be home from the mines in a couple hours. I think about Snow's threat. It was directed at Gale. My family, his family, Peeta's family were all threatened peripherally, but Snow will take Gale's life if I step out of line. Just one more week in the Capitol, and then home.

My mind drifts to the hallway in 1. To the words exchanged between Cinna and Haymitch in secrecy. There is something more going on here that they aren't telling us. This rebellion is more than just an idea.

"What are you thinking about?" Peeta's voice comes from behind me. I turn back from the window. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. From the flecks of paint spackling his hands, Peeta's clearly been thinking, too. There are listening devices here. I still need to tell him what I heard in 4, but since our reconciliation we haven't had the privacy needed for that kind of conversation.

"Life," I say. I guess that's not too dishonest.

"Have you been sleeping, Katniss? Since we stopped…" He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to. Since we stopped sleeping together.

I want to say yes, but we agreed not to lie to each other. Instead, I just keep quiet.

"You could come to my room tonight," he offers, and my heart leaps to my throat. He's just being kind, though. I squash the excitement.

"I'm fine, really." Sort of a lie. Mostly a lie.

"I'm planning on staying here until dinner in a couple hours," he says, looking out the window. "I was hoping to catch the sunset."

"Me too," I say, and my gaze drifts back to the skyline. Peeta sits next to me on the bench. I shift away slightly, giving him space.

"You're going to make yourself sick not sleeping," he lectures. I know he's right. "Put your head on my lap. I'm here anyways, it's not a problem."

I start to resist, but my eyes are burning and my stomach feels wretched. I shift down on the bench and drop my head to his legs. He mindlessly plays with my hair, and everything feels like it used to. A wall falls. I drift off.

Peeta wakes me a few hours later and we watch the sun burn as it falls below the horizon. My head feels clearer, my body more able. I sit up and he smiles at me. He tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. I want to kiss him. I want to push him into the window and crawl into his lap and learn his mouth again. The thought terrifies me, but in an exhilarating kind of way. Instead, I stand up.

"Dinner. Let's go," I smile. I weave my hand in his and we walk to the dining car. Under the table, our hands graze one another all through dinner. Palm ghosting palm, fingers traveling up and down in soft sweeping motions. After the meal completes, Peeta and I go to his room to pack. It's almost laughable how easy his packing will be compared to mine. His clothes are neatly folded in his closet, his toiletries lined along the bathroom sink. My room is a mess. My life is a mess. All said he finishes within a few minutes, leaving out his toothbrush and a change of clothes for the morning.

"How long do you think it will take Haymitch to pack?" Peeta asks jokingly.

"Oh, I bet he doesn't. I bet he leaves it all behind and just brings the clothes he's wearing," I reply. Peeta laughs, nodding his head. I stand to leave and Peeta walks me the few paces to his door. "Are you sure you want to go? You can stay." He's opening himself up to me. He's making himself vulnerable. His eyes drop to my mouth. I take a deep breath.

"The next time I kiss you, it will be because I have something to say," I say, stepping back. A smirk crosses his lips.

"Really?" he asks, a hint of incredulity in his voice, but an undertow of hope.

"Yeah," I say, and duck out of the door. I wonder if I'm doing this flirting thing right.

I make my way down to the kitchen. Cheshire is already prepared with mixing bowls and ingredients lined on the table. He looks up and smiles brightly when I walk in the door.

"I've got everything all set. Now, what kind of cake do you want to make?" he asks. I hadn't gotten that far thinking about it.

"Is there a cinnamon cake?" I ask.

"You mean coffee cake?" Cheshire replies. No, I've had coffee cake at breakfast. That's not what I mean.

"Um, I want a frosted cake," I say, discouraged.

"It's okay, we can do that," he responds cheerfully. We mix eggs and butter. We sift flour through a mesh bowl. Sugar, vanilla, and finally… cinnamon. The cake goes in the oven, and we turn our attention to the frosting. We mix cream cheese, butter, brown sugar, confectioner's sugar, vanilla, cream, and cinnamon. My arm grows tired but I keep stirring until the mixture is smooth. Cheshire hands me a "tasting spoon." I sort of thought that was what fingers were for, but I comply and we each try the frosting. It's sweet, cinnamony, and it melts on my tongue.

When the cake comes out of the oven, I want to take it out of the pan right away, but my chef makes me wait. It's awkward. I sit on my hands. We talk about his wife, his two kids. One just turned twelve. Reaping age, I think to myself, and I realize he's never had to worry about it. About lining his child up along with all the other twelve-year olds with her name in a glass bowl. Our lives have been very different, but it doesn't make him less of a person. Peeta is right. The people from the Capitol are real. We can't just hate them all.

"Cake's cooled!" Cheshire says, and we each remove one from its pan. He brings me a long, large knife, and we cut the cakes in half horizontally so there are 4 layers. Next, we frost. I am useless. My pressure is either too hard, or not hard enough. It's a good thing my layer is in the middle somewhere. We stack the cakes tall, and we take in our work. "It's lovely, lady. Really."

We put the cake in a glass case and hide it away in a basket. I smile gratefully and head back to my room, basket in hand. My mind wanders to when the right time would be to give Peeta my gift, but when I open the door, he's is standing in the middle of my room.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to hide the basket behind my back. He looks emboldened.

"I know what you said earlier. About kissing me," he says.

"Yeah?" I reply, my heart throbbing.

"That the next time you kiss me, it will be because you have something to say," Peeta states.

"Yeah?" I mumble again.

"I have something to say." He steps forward and presses his mouth to mine, his hand on my back. I'm careful not to kiss him back, but the feel of his lips makes me think I might never breathe again. I let out a small sigh as his mouth leaves mine. He slowly pulls away, and I can feel his heart hammering next to mine. "I just wanted to make sure you knew. That nothing's changed for me."

"Good," I manage, before he slips out the door.

Good.


	28. The Capitol - Day 1

We arrive in the Capitol in the early morning. There is no sleeping in or leaving after breakfast. Effie has us all ushered off the train as soon as it comes to a full stop. I'm not sure if she's anxious to be home, or if she's excited about the week's festivities, or perhaps a mix of both, but she is in rare form this morning. Her normally high screech is in the stratosphere, and I'm almost tempted to cover my ears. When we all step out onto the platform, Haymitch is noticeably absent. I'm sure he's hungover, or maybe still drunk from last night. He doesn't sleep until the sun rises, so it's unlikely he's out of bed this early.

"I'll get him," I offer, and Peeta takes my bag. I climb back onto the train and make my way to his room. I take a deep breath and get ready to enter. I try to breathe as little as possible in his room, and even then only through my mouth, but when I open the door, I find Haymitch standing at his bed, latching together his suitcase. His room is clean. Well, relatively clean. He's wearing fresh clothes and his hair is damp from a recent shower.

"Hey," I say, and he turns around. "I was just coming to get you. We're all heading to the Tribute Center now."

"Oh, right," he says distractedly. "I'll be right there."

"I can wait," I say, sitting on the end of his bed. He goes to the bathroom and quickly brushes his teeth before throwing the wet toothbrush in his bag. "Haymitch, are you sober?" I ask.

"Mostly," he says, and latches the luggage closed. He quickly makes the bed, and I watch him with a baffled expression. "What?" he asks warily.

"Who are you and what have you done with Haymitch?" I ask.

"Was that a joke, sweetheart?" he asks. "Did you just try to be funny?"

"Shut up," I scowl at him.

"There's the girl I know," Haymitch states, taking his suitcase in hand. "Look, I've let you guys manage the last districts on your own because you seemed to get the swing of things. Stopped making stupid mistakes. But the Capitol - it's a whole other game. You need to listen to me this next week."

I try to reconcile this Haymitch - the Haymitch trying to help us help Snow versus the secretive Haymitch who seems to be plotting some kind of rebellion behind my back. The only common thinking I can find between the two is he's trying to protect me. He wants to help me meet Snow's expectations to keep me, and ultimately those close to me, alive, even if it does run counter to his grander scheme.

I'm worried about him. I've been so caught up worrying about Gale and Prim and the Hawthornes that I've lost sight of those people right in front of me. They aren't likely to succeed, so what happens when they get caught? Will they execute Haymitch on live television? Cinna? I start to feel sick.

Haymitch must see my skin turn pallid. "Come on, let's go meet Effie before she has an aneurism." Outside we regroup and make our way over to the Tribute Center. Effie tells us we will be staying in our old suite for the run of our time in the Capitol. The team will stay in their old quarters as well. She will finalize a schedule for the week this afternoon and distribute to the staff accordingly.

I can't describe the feeling that overcomes me when I enter the Tribute Center. It's bizarre. Without all the other tributes, the space feels empty. I close my eyes and see Rue pushing all the buttons in the elevator, and the boy from 7 scowling at her. I see Cato and Clove bickering in the lobby. I see Foxface alone in a corner with a book. I feel Peeta weave his hand in mine.

"I know," he whispers, and he does. Only he does. And Haymitch. Only a victor knows what it's like to walk through the ghosts that you left in the Arena.

We have an hour to settle into our rooms before we are supposed to meet Effie for brunch. Brunch is a new concept introduced to me on this Tour. No one has brunch in 12. Even the word sounds silly. It takes about five seconds to put my bag on my bed, and now I have fifty-nine minutes to kill. I hide the basket with Peeta's cake in the top of my closet and make my way to his room.

Peeta is legitimately unpacking. His suitcase is open on his bed, and he lays the clothes in the dresser or hangs them in the closet. When he sees me in the doorway he smiles.

"This is weird, right?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's weird," I reply, crossing to his bed and plopping down next to his suitcase. He takes a stack of shirts and tidies them a little before placing them in a drawer. I look in his suitcase and see it tucked in the corner. I feel my heart throb in my ears. It's a tiny box. I'm sure he was hiding it in his sock drawer on the train. Peeta follows my stare. I must look terrified, because the first words out of his mouth are, "Don't worry, it's not a real proposal."

"I know, but…" My fingers stretch forward and touch the box. It's smooth, like satin. "Can I see it?" I ask.

"Oh, um… yeah." Peeta takes the box from his bag and sits next to me on the bed. He fiddles it around in his fingers, as if he's nervous. We don't have engagement rings in 12. We have wedding bands, which are plain steel rings given to couples at the Justice Building when they sign their marriage license. Everyone's wedding band looks the same. I've seen wedding sets on Capitol fingers though. Like everything else in the Capitol, they are overdone and gaudy. They normally have giant jewels on the front, which I imagine must get in the way when you are using your hands. I know we are having a Capitol engagement, and probably a Capitol wedding, so I wonder what kind of tasteless Capitol-inspired ring Effie made him buy me.

Peeta opens the box wordlessly next to me. Inside, a tiny ring glimmers in the light. It's not huge and tawdry at all. The platinum band is carved to look like a tree branch - imprecise and earthy. A nest of small, delicately engraved leaves nestle a petite pearl. It almost looks like an egg in a nest. The attention to detail, the grain of the smooth bark, the curl of the leaves, are absolutely stunning. It looks like a tiny piece of art. I can see myself in the Spring, climbing branches and peeking into bird's nests, spying the world from above. Feeling safe. This wasn't about them at all. This was about me.

Tears burn in my eyes and I try to bat them away before Peeta sees them. "So… um, you like it?" he asks. I nod fervently.

"Yeah," I manage as I try to choke back a happy sob, but it's obvious I'm moved and I can't wipe this stupid smile off my face. I rise to my feet and try to hide my face.

"I'm kind of glad we got to have this moment alone," he says quietly to my back.

"Me too," I say, still facing the door. I walk forward to leave, but at the doorway I turn to face him. "Thank you," I whisper with a small smile. He returns it in kind.

I go back to my room and a while later Peeta meets me there to walk down to brunch. We don't talk about the ring, or the engagement, but when I squeeze his hand tight in mine, a smile finds a home on his lips and doesn't leave for hours.

Effie gives us the written schedule and I zone out for the rest of the lecture. I spend most of this afternoon with my prep team for our first big event tonight – a dinner with the Gamemakers. That seems like certain torture to me, but apparently it's a tradition. Seneca Crane is notably absent from the registrar, but no one brings it up. Snow as much as told me he was dead. I don't think I ever shared that with Peeta, but I need to. No secrets. I still haven't been able to tell him what I overheard between Finnick and Haymitch, and how it might fold into what Cinna and Haymitch had been discussing. Unlike the districts, I don't know how many safe, unbugged areas exist in the Capitol grounds, especially in the areas we are headed.

My prep session is especially long. Everything I wear in the Capitol is more grandiose than what I wore in the districts. It looks like they've assimilated me. Like I'm one of them now. For Gale's sake, I suppose that's good, but I feel like a traitor with curled eyelashes and stained lips. Haymitch drops by unexpectedly.

"Listen, sweetheart. Tonight is all about massaging egos. The Gamemakers are very important members of society here, but they are prideful and competitive. You need to compliment them, but be careful it doesn't overshadow any of the others. You and Peeta should lay on the love story heavy. And the gratitude. Thank them for saving both of you. Thank them for their generosity."

"Is it important that I don't vomit while I say those words?" I reply coldly. Octavia gives me a sideways look but keeps working.

"I think you've done enough of that already," he smirks.

Peeta and I leave soon after, escorted to the event by Effie. Outside, a crowd of reporters gathers in the lobby. For most of the Tour we've been followed by a dozen or so members of the press, but here in the Capitol with their many gossip and fashion magazines, it's no longer just for government propaganda, and the numbers have swelled dramatically. Peeta protectively wraps an arm around me as we press through the crowd. Bulbs flash and questions fly through the air.

"Katniss, are you happy to be back in the Capitol?"

"Peeta, are you planning to propose?"

"Katniss, do you think about Rue?"

That question stops me. I turn around and face the woman. She's tiny, maybe four feet tall, with a giant magenta wig of almost equal height. It's a wonder she doesn't topple over. "What did you say?" I ask, eyes narrowing.

"Do you think about Rue?" she repeats, microphone shoved in my face.

"Of course I think about Rue," I reply.

"You've killed more Careers than any tribute from an outer district. Are you glad Marvel is dead?" she asks.

My eyes focus in on her, narrowing slightly. I step forward, my voice cold and dark but my eyes on fire. "That's why I got an eleven," I answer ominously. She cowers slightly behind her microphone. The other reporters step back as well. So far, my persona since the Arena has been innocent, sweet schoolgirl, infatuated with her boyfriend and her new fashion line. But here, I am deadly. I am a threat. The questions stop. Peeta grabs my hand and pulls me inside.

"What were you thinking?" he asks. His words are harsh but his tone is less so. He wants to know what hole we need to dig ourselves out of.

"I was thinking that woman tried to reduce Rue to some kind of bullet in my history, not a little girl who lived. She asked if I was _glad_ Marvel was dead, like I'm some kind of cold-blooded killer!" I spit back defensively.

"And you wanted to convince them otherwise? Because that's not what happened," he states.

"I wanted her out of my face," I retort. He sighs. He understands, but he knows we are in trouble.

"Okay, well, let's try to make up for it inside," he says, weaving his fingers in mine.

I try to let Peeta do all the talking. He swoons and woos the Gamemakers as if they were old friends. I hear them laughing and smile along. I hear one bragging about the fireballs, which seemed to be his devious invention.

"They certainly gave you quite a run, didn't they Miss Everdeen?" he chuckles.

"Oh yes. Quite a run," I repeat his words back, smiling brightly. My champagne tastes like vinegar. I want to leave.

When Effie tells us the evening has come to a close, I act disappointed. I'm sure to say goodnight to every Gamemaker individually. A particularly fat, pale man holds my hand for longer than I'm comfortable with. His palm against mine makes my skin crawl. _I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin._ He kisses the back of my hand and gives me a wink. I want to smack him in the face, but instead I giggle flirtatiously until Peeta pulls me away. I want to die. I want to crawl into a closet somewhere and rot away.

Peeta's hand never leaves mine. Not in the car, not in the elevator, not in our suite. Only when I go to the sink and run water over my face does he step back, and sits on the edge of my bathtub.

"I feel dirty," I say, scrubbing my hands ferociously under the water. I want to wipe off the entire layer of skin that man's lips came in contact with. My skin turns pink.

"Hey, do you want to shower?" Peeta asks, and I immediately understand his meaning.

"Yes," I say, and we crank the water on high. For good measure, we leave the sink running. He leans his face into mine until his mouth is at my ear, our cheeks pressed together. I try not to think about our proximity, but even feeling his breath on my skin makes it hard to concentrate. We skip this evening's developments and get right to the chase.

"What do you think Cinna and Haymitch were talking about?" he asks.

"I think they are trying to start a revolution," I reply, and he pulls away to meet my eyes. We stay close and quiet.

"What?" he asks, with a mix of desperation and concern.

"Not just them, either. In Four, it seemed like Finnick might be in on it too, and maybe that other victor, Chaff," I reply.

"So what, a few victors and a stylist are going to take down the Capitol?" Peeta asks, worry evident in his tone. He wants to fight, I can tell, but he doesn't want to run into some foolhardy plan that might get us killed. We're on the same page.

"Cinna implied it's more than that," I said.

"When was that?" he asks urgently.

"Back when we weren't talking. I wanted to tell you…" I lose my words. We promised no lying. No omitting the truth.

"It's fine," he dismisses my concern. "We're catching up now. Also, Portia said something that at the time made no sense, but now…" His voice trails off.

"What did she say?" I ask immediately.

"She said Chaff was sloppy for being seen in Eight," he replies. "At the time I didn't really know what she meant, but maybe it's because he was there covertly."

"In Four, it seemed to me like it was more than just Finnick plotting. It seemed to me like he had control over the people there. Like they'd riot or not on his word," I add.

We stare at each other. Well, it's out in the open.

"Do you want to actually shower?" Peeta asks. "I can go."

"I do, but…" I take a deep breath. "Stay?"

"The night?" he asks.

"No, just don't go yet," I ask. I sit in front of him and he helps me pull what must be a hundred pins from my hair. When it's finally loose at my shoulders, he gives me a lopsided smile. I shower quickly, and he sits on the closed toilet and talks to me about the time his brother Rye switched the confectioner's sugar and flour at the bakery. I'm laughing along as I towel off in the shower. I wrap it around my body and let my hair hang wet down my back. Peeta turns around so I can step on the drying mat, and my skin tingles as my hair falls back into place, soft and untangled.

I pull on a nightshirt and shorts, and Peeta follows me into my room. "I have something for you," I say, as I pad barefoot across my room to the closet. I pull down the basket, and Peeta and I sit cross-legged on my bed across from one another. "It might be terrible. I didn't know what I was doing." I pull out the glass case holding the tiny cake and place it on the bed between us. A huge smile stretches across Peeta's face.

"Did you make me a cake?" he whispers softly.

"Yeah," I say, blushing feverishly. "It's probably not any good."

He pulls open the glass and the air fills with sugar and cinnamon. "Is it a cinnamon cake?" he asks, his curiosity piqued.

I offer a shy smile. "Umm. I tried. There wasn't really a cinnamon cake, so we kind of mixed a recipe for cake and a snickerdoodle." I'm not sure if I'm saying that right. That's just what the book said. Peeta obviously knows though, because his smile brightens.

"Really? You invented a cake for me?" I feel my face burning, but Peeta absolutely glows. "Who is we?" he asks.

"Oh, Cheshire helped me," I mumble.

"You were hanging out with Cheshire?" His eyes are radiant. Walls are tumbling down between us.

"Yeah, we talked. He's nervous about the dinner at the Mansion but glad to be home to see Marigold," I say.

"You know his kids' names?" Peeta's smile is infectious.

"Is this an interview or something? Stop asking questions and eat your cake," I insist. He beams brightly at me and uses the fork Cheshire packed in the basket.

He takes a bite and sighs. "Oh it's so good. Cinnamon is my favorite."

"I know," I say softly.

"You want some?" he asks, his eyebrows perched on his forehead, but my eyes drop to his mouth, where a bit of frosting lingers on his upper lip. I want to lean over and suck it off. I want to taste cinnamon on his mouth. He catches my expression, and the mood turns serious. "Are you going to kiss me?" he asks softly. Hope floats in his voice. My stomach flips.

I want to. I want to.

"Soon," I whisper. He smiles and goes back to the cake.


	29. The Capitol - Day 2

Light cracks through the curtains. Peeta stayed the night. Well, sort of. We stayed up for hours and he fell asleep at the foot of my bed. I've been watching him sleep for a while. I couldn't close my eyes. My mind won't rest. I try to grapple with the fact that I'm terrified every time we take a step closer to each other. That I can't just change overnight. That at some point I'm going to mess up. I'm going to hurt him. I'm going to get hurt. I swore I'd never let myself get this vulnerable, yet here I am, watching a sleeping boy and feeling my eyes wash over his lips. Peeta yawns and stretches out. It takes a moment for him to realize where he is, and when he catches me watching him a slumber-heavy smile stretches across his face.

"I'm sorry, I was supposed to go," he says in a gravelly morning voice. He forces himself to sit up. His hair is a mess, like it always is in the morning. His curls flatten on one side of his head and stand straight on the other. He looks quizzically at his feet. "Did you take my leg off?"

"Oh! Yeah, I did. It's next to the bed on the floor. I know your leg gets sore if you sleep with it on," I reply. Normally he attaches it immediately, but this morning he lets it rest on the floor. I start to wonder if he only attaches it immediately when I'm around. "I don't mind, you know," I add.

Peeta looks over my shoulder. "Is there cake left?" he asks.

"Some. I may have stolen a few bites this morning," I say shyly.

Peeta looks at me with a devilish grin. "Katniss. Everdeen. Did you eat my cake?" He crawls toward me on the mattress slowly, like a hunter stalking prey. I inch backward on the bed.

"No!" I deny it, although we both know I'm lying. My back hits the headboard and I can't escape any further. He's grinning wickedly and I can't help but smile back. Before I know it, his arms are around my waist and he pulls me underneath him on the bed. He pins me down, and I think he's going to kiss me. My heart slams against my sternum. Instead, his hands slide under my arms and he starts tickling me. I screech. I screech. I don't even recognize myself, this smiling, happy girl. I try to wrestle my way out from under him, and I remember he won the silver medal in school. I'm defenseless and begging him to stop, laughing until I'm out of air. "Please!" I plead, gasping and giggling.

"Ahem!" A familiar disapproving throat clears in our direction. We stop and look up to see Effie, arms crossed and toe tapping rapidly in her pointed heels. We shoot apart from one another on the bed, a tangle of morning hair and sheets and smiles that we fail to conceal. "Breakfast began twenty minutes ago! Everyone else is already in the dining room!" She turns curtly and clicks out of the room. We both try to bury our laughter but it doesn't really work. Peeta straps his leg on.

"Well, technically I'm already dressed," he says, referring to his dress slacks from last night.

"Go change," I say, throwing his suit coat at him. He grabs what's left of the cake and ducks out of the room. I'm sure everyone can see his guilty walk between our doors. I wait a bit hoping he makes it down first and can absorb most of their shameful glares. I wash my face, brush my hair, and throw on daytime clothes. It's at least another ten minutes before I finally wander down to the dining room.

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence, sweetheart," Haymitch says, scooping another mound of eggs onto his plate.

Peeta is across the table and keeps his eyes trained on his food, a roguish smirk sitting on his lips. "Yeah, Katniss. Try to show up on time next time," he says sternly, and the two of us burst out laughing. Peeta laughs until no sound comes out. I'm wheezing at the table, tears rolling down my cheeks, and Cinna is giving us a bizarre look.

"It wasn't _that_ funny," he says gently, and I just shake my head, desperately trying to swallow the laughter. I try to look at Peeta but the eye contact doesn't help. A renewed roll of cackling bellows through us. Peeta's slouched down in his chair, trying not to choke on the toast he was chewing.

"Well I never!" Effie says, rising from the table and throwing her cloth napkin in her chair before storming from the room. The laughs turn into chuckles, which finally transition to giggles and then nothing at all.

"That was easily an entire year's worth of laughing for me," I say, trying to regain my composure and wiping my cheeks.

"I didn't even know you could laugh," Haymitch comments as he slides Effie's plate in front of himself. I'm ravenously hungry and pile my plate high with food. I couldn't stomach anything last night, surrounded by a bunch of men that tried to kill me. I find it curious that most of the Gamemakers are men. Aside from a few servants and some trophy wives, I was one of the only women in that room last night.

When my prep team shows up, I steal a couple extra pieces of bacon and bring them with me as we go to get ready for the day. Peeta gives me a look as I leave the room, and I know our respite is over. The interviews are tonight. The nervousness that manifested as laughter earlier now makes me fidget in my chair. Of course my team doesn't know Peeta's proposing, but Cinna's told them to make me look "radiant." I'll need all the help I can get not looking terrified.

When you want time to drag it races by. The afternoon vanishes, I barely remember Cinna speaking to me. Calming words. Breathe. In what seems like no time, I'm backstage with Peeta and Haymitch, listening to Caesar Flickerman warm up the crowd.

"We all know what the deal is tonight," Haymitch says. Peeta and I nod. Normally I'd take comfort in his closeness, but in this moment we both feel weird and distant from one another. Laughing in my bed seems a million miles away. Time is pliant, like toffee being stretched through a wheel.

"Smile. Be surprised. Be happy. You want to give them something to root for. You want to show the world you are crazy, head over heels, willing to die for each other in love. You got it?" Haymitch looks at us directly. We both nod. He turns to Peeta. "You know what you are going to say?" Peeta nods. Haymitch puts his hand on Peeta's shoulder, but Peeta just looks at his feet. "Okay, I'm next," Haymitch says, straightening his jacket. I don't wish him luck. I should, but I'm in my own head.

The crowd cheers and I zone it all out. I don't listen to Haymitch's interview. I feel Peeta next to me, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. He fiddles with the ring box in his jacket pocket. Find when you're being selfish and change it. I swallow my panic and steady my hands before I step in front of him.

"Hey," I say awkwardly. He meets my gaze for a second before dropping it again. "Hey," I say more insistently, stepping forward and cupping his face in my hands. His eyes meet mine. "This isn't real," I state. "You don't have to be nervous right now. You can be nervous when we do this for real." The look on his face shifts immediately, but we don't have any more time. I hear our names announced and we have to make our way on to the stage.

Okay, he feels better. Now I just have to make it through the next thirty minutes.

Caesar and Peeta exchange pleasantries. They joke and laugh between them. I try to laugh along, but it's fake and I'm awkward. I keep Peeta's hand in a vice grip for most of the evening. Caesar's eyes twinkle next to his midnight blue suit. He guides us through the interview flawlessly.

"Now, it seemed like things had cooled off between you two back home," Caesar implies, chuckling to himself.

"Oh, that was my mom." I spit out the first words I've offered independently this evening. "She thinks I'm too young for a boyfriend," I add.

"Well, these are special circumstances, certainly! I'm sure she'd understand. Am I right?" Caesars asks the crowd, and they cheer uproariously. "But on the Tour things seem to have heated right back up!" The screen cuts to a montage of our visits to the Districts. Video of us smiling. The kiss on the dance floor with everyone dancing around our still frame. Whispers and smiles. My soaked dress in Four. Our sneaking away and getting caught. The food fight. It's very convincing. As the video comes to a close, Peeta leans into me. "I think I should do it now. Are you ready?" I nod, imperceptible to anyone but him.

"You seem very happy away from mommy's prying eyes! Yes! Yes!" Caesar exclaims.

Peeta squeezes my hand. "We are," he says, rising from the couch. The audience gasps. Everyone knows what's coming, but I feel as though the thousands of us are all holding our breath together. Peeta drops to one knee and they sigh in unison.

"Katniss, I've loved you since before I could write my name. I've loved you up close and I've loved you from far away. I've loved you in secret and I've loved you in public. I've loved you when we were both crying in pain, and I've loved you when we were both laughing in joy. The only true thing in my life, for as long as I can remember, is loving you. It's a constant for me. I'll love you every day for the rest of my life if you'll have me. When I thought…" he gulps. The audience stills. "When they changed the rules, when they said only one of us could win…" I know why he's doing this. He's trying to say we weren't rebelling. He's trying to say we weren't defiant. But it doesn't make the words any less true for him. "I knew I didn't want to live without you. I didn't see the point. And in that moment, when you poured the berries in my hand, I knew you felt the same. That there is no life for me without you in it." I see audience members blotting tears from their eyes. "Katniss Everdeen, please marry me." The auditorium is silent, and I picture the lake. I dive underwater, and all the sound stops. The mockingjay's songs fade to nothing. The brush of leaves vanish. The audience isn't there. I'm floating still. Alone.

"Yes," I breathe, and the audience erupts into screams. The screens all fill with sights of cheering crowds from districts across Panem. The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta rises to his feet, and slides the ring on my finger before pressing his mouth to mine. He leans into me.

"You're crying," he whispers, and my fingers float to my cheeks. I force a smile on my face and wave to the crowd. I fawn over the ring. Peeta dips me into a slow, deep kiss and the audience eats it up.

From behind us, we hear Caesar gasp. "Why President Snow! We are honored!"

Everything in my body turns cold. I feel Peeta's grip on me shift from affectionate to protective. We both gasp and pretend we are honored that he's here, when really I'd like to find a loose nail somewhere on this set and jam it into his eye.

"Peeta, did you tell him?" I flirt, throwing what I hope comes across as a playful look to the audience.

"I wanted to be the first to congratulate you. To the happy couple!" Snow raises his hands in the air, and the audience applauds wildly. The scent from the rose on his lapel drifts to us, and I have to swallow hard to keep myself from lunging forward and ripping it from his jacket. President Snow turns to Peeta and me, a small box in his hand. "A gift! A token from all of Panem." I open it. Inside is a picture of my parents on their wedding day. The same picture that was on the desk in the study when Snow came to 12. The audience cheers at the symbolism of the gift, wishing Peeta and me a marriage full of love. But that's not what this is, not to us. Not to me. This is a threat. He can take whatever he wants, whoever he wants, whenever he wants. Nothing and no one is safe from his reach.

My eyes fill with tears but I smile brightly. "It's so thoughtful. Thank you," I say. The audience reads my reaction as gratitude, but I'm struggling to keep my real emotions in check. Rage. I can feel Snow close to me. I can smell him. I can taste the repugnant odor of the rose. It would be so easy to just end it now, for both of us. If I had a weapon, something to kill him swiftly before the guards descended on the stage, I'd do it now. I'd watch his blood pour on the floor and I'd see it as rebirth. But instead I stand uselessly by as we banter for the audience.

 _When President Snow silences the audience and says, "What do you think about us throwing them a wedding right here in the Capitol?" I pull off girl-almost-catatonic-with-joy without a hitch. Caesar Flickerman asks if the president has a date in mind. "Oh, before we set a date, we better clear it with Katniss's mother," says the president. The audience gives a big laugh and the president puts his arm around me. "Maybe if the whole country puts its mind to it, we can get you married before you're thirty."_

 _"You'll probably have to pass a new law," I say with a giggle._

 _"If that's what it takes," says the president with conspiratorial good humor. Oh, the fun we two have together._

I imagine him bleeding out at my feet.

Back in the Tribute Center, I dismiss myself before dinner is served. I tell Effie I'm tired, but I can't be around everyone right now. I go to my room. I can't hide in my closet. The floor has a giant shoe rack and there's no space. I go to the bathroom and step inside my shower fully clothed. I curl up in the corner. The shower has four glass walls, and I still feel exposed. I don't want to be here anymore. I reach up and turn the faucet and the water pours all over me, my clothes clinging and heavy my body. I run the water too hot, until it burns my skin, and I let it fall on me anyway. I want the glass to steam up and hide me from the world. I want my skin to wash away from my body. I want to be reduced to bone, I want to crumble to dust, I want to blow away in a dry desert wind, until I hear a quiet knock at the door.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks as he ducks inside. I don't reply, but I don't need to. He knows where I am. "You okay?" he asks. In answer, I push open the shower door. Water drips onto the floor, and Peeta sees me soaked in my clothes, curled up in a corner. "Okay then," he says, and steps inside. He says nothing about the water temperature as he takes a seat beside me.

"You're still wearing your shoes," I say mindlessly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know the etiquette to sitting in a running shower with your clothes on," Peeta laughs, and I smile. I drop my head on his shoulder, and he rests his head on mine. I don't feel like I want to melt away anymore. Or, if I do, I want Peeta to melt with me. We can melt into people goo and swirl into the drain until we can't tell anymore which parts are him and which parts are me. I lift my head from his shoulder to tell him that. He turns his head to look at me, water dripping down his face and steam making the air feel heavy around us. Our eyes lock. I picture the lake again. The silence. Floating alone. Only I don't feel so alone anymore.

I can hear the shower running, I can hear the drops of water pelting the glass walls and hitting our clothes. The air pressure of the faucet. I can hear the water pooling and gravity pulling it down the drain. I can hear the pound of my heart in my ears. I lift my hand and place it on Peeta's chest. I can feel his skin through his soaked shirt, his heart slamming on the other side of my palm. I bring my gaze back to his. I see him swallow. We're both nervous, like we haven't kissed a thousand times. But this is different. We've agreed that this kiss says something. Means something. So when I bring my mouth to his, I kiss him softly. He doesn't kiss me back right away. He lets me say what I need to say, in the only way I know how. My fingers go to his jaw, grazing it gracefully. My tongue lightly caresses his lower lip. His mouth starts to move against mine. We know how to kiss each other. Everything is slow and languid. Deliberate. I tug his hair slightly and he breathes into me. "Katniss…" It's more an exhale than words, and I crawl into his lap.

The water hammers my back as I take the advantage. I am kissing him. I push his shoulders into the wall. Our pace hurries. I pull at his shirt and he tugs at my hair. The kiss deepens. My tongue dips into his mouth and Peeta meets it, stroking my tongue with his own in a way that makes my stomach tighten into knots. I slowly withdraw from his mouth, leaving small, soft pecks on his lips, his cheeks, his face, his neck. I let my mouth linger where his pulse beats and I feel his fingers tighten desperately around my waist. I bring my mouth to his one more time and stay there for an extra moment before I pull back and meet his gaze.

I smile. He smiles back.


	30. The Capitol - Day 3

Peeta and I stay up all night talking, but by morning I'm not doing well. I haven't really slept since our falling out, and now at breakfast I'm feeling the effects. I'm clumsy with my fork and I'm eating nothing but sweets. Effie tells us tonight we are attending a late music concert by some famous Capitol violinist, and then we have a reception with the Sponsors from our Games - strictly hors devours and cocktails. Haymitch stresses how important tonight is, not just for our love story, but also for our upcoming bout as Mentors in the next Games. If we want to help whoever the next tributes are, it's paramount we make nice tonight.

Even thinking about mentoring makes me want to jump off the roof, especially when I am nearly certain one will be Prim if I do anything to step out of line. I think Peeta can sense my unease.

"So if it's a late concert, do we have anything today? When does prep start?" he asks.

"Your prep isn't until seven," Effie answers with precision.

"When is Katniss's prep?" Peeta says.

"Engaged for less than a day and already pestering me about your fiancée!" Effie twitters playfully. "You two! Hmm... Let me see..." Effie refers to her calendar. "We have an early dinner at four, and then Katniss's prep begins promptly at five this evening."

Breakfast ends and Haymitch and Effie leave. Cinna and Portia had a morning appointment, so that just leaves Peeta and me. We aren't used to having nothing to do. We head to living area. Peeta finds a magazine on Capitol cuisine and immerses himself in it. I curl up on the couch with my head in his lap. My thoughts drift to the next Reaping. Standing on stage in front of my district, punished for surviving. A boy. A girl. Maybe someone I recognize, or maybe I don't. It doesn't make it less horrific. I must be restless, because Peeta runs his hands through my hair.

"You want me to read to you?" he asks softly. I know he's hoping I'll sleep. He can see the dark circles under my eyes, the discoloration of my skin. I don't really care about what people in the Capitol eat, but if it keeps my mind from my sister's name in a reaping bowl, I'll do it. I nod and he starts. "Well, the pictures are the best part, but I'll try to describe it. Uh, so the current craze in the Capitol right now is caramelized pears." Peeta clears his throat and puts on his reading voice. "The essential element to creating the perfect pear is choosing the right bourbon," he clicks in a Capitol accent. I smile with my eyes closed. I assume he smiles back because he squeezes my hand a little. "While some chefs may tell you any shelf bourbon will do, the sugar balance in a small batch bourbon will get you the right flavor profile when melted with butter."

I feel myself starting to drift. He's still reading, but I'm not hearing the words so much anymore as the tone of his voice. My body feels light and easy. I feel like I'm floating above the cushions, but sinking into them at the same time. When Peeta lifts me from the couch, I lean into him, not quite awake but not asleep either. I feel him steady on the stairs, creaking open the door to his room. I feel his bed under my back, my body curling into the soft down comforter. He's gone for a moment, but then I feel his warmth curl beside me. I roll over and bury my face in his chest. His head is propped reading, and he rests his chin on top of mine. I feel sleep lull me under. Peeta presses his mouth to my hair.

"I love you, Katniss," he whispers, barely louder than a breath.

I drift into a dreamless calm. When I wake hours later, Peeta is sleeping beside me, the magazine fallen to his side. The ceiling fan spins and the curtains are drawn to keep the light out. I don't totally remember coming to his room, but I remember the words. Normally his declarations of love make me uncomfortable, but in this moment I feel sheer panic. The weight of his arm across my waist feels confining and the air is too stuffy to breathe. I try not to panic, but my heaving chest is giving me away. My mind is telling my feet to get up and leave. It wouldn't be that weird, it's his room. I could say I needed something in mine. Like… privacy.

Peeta sleeps soundly beside me. What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into? I can feel Peeta stir, and I try to gain control of my breathing. I try not to give myself away.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he whispers. Yes, I think, but I shake my head no. He squeezes my hip reassuringly and starts drifting back to sleep, making up for the hours we lost last two nights talking about useless things until the sun came up. His hand slides my shirt up slightly, and he lifts his own so the skin of his stomach is pressed against the skin of my lower back.

"I just want to feel you," he says quietly, and his breathing steadies into the low, full breaths of rest. Despite what was seizing panic, my breathing starts to slow. It's feeling him here, pressed against me. His skin hot against mine, like a furnace. It's knowing he's alive. It's knowing he's here with me. I'm not scared of this. I'm not scared of him. I'm not scared of his words.

I'm scared because I'm choosing to stay. I'm scared because I feel it too, and he knows it. I'm scared because I'm giving a part of myself to him, and I'll never get it back.

I need to get out of my own way for once.

"Hey," I shake Peeta slightly. "Hey."

Peeta wakes quickly, sitting up. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not going to say stuff a lot," I stammer.

"Okay?" he says back.

"So… I'm just going to say it a lot right now," I fumble.

"Okay," he says again, a sleepy grin stretching across his face.

"I love you," I say insistently. It doesn't sound romantic at all. It sounds sterile, like I'm introducing myself in school or reading aloud from a manual.

"I love you," he says back, and I put my hand over his mouth.

"You don't have to say it just because I say it. And I don't have to just because you do," I state.

"Okay, Katniss," Peeta says.

"I love you," I say again and his grin widens. "I can hear you thinking it! Stop!" I cry, shoving one of his pillows at him. "I love you," I repeat. He says nothing, biting his lip. "I love you." Peeta leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. I push his chest away from me but he leans into the kiss, his tongue tickling my top lip.

"I can't not kiss you," he begs.

"I love you," I breathe into his mouth, and I feel him shake. "I love you." The kissing gets lazy and slow, until our eyes are both heavy again. His arms wrap around my neck, my head presses into his chest. "I love you," I say once more into his tee shirt. I lift it up a bit, exposing his stomach, and I do the same to mine. I press our skin together like he did, and before long we're both asleep again.

Haymitch knocks on our door. Effie refuses to come get us now after catching us in a scandal this morning.

"Her bar for a scandal is pretty low," Peeta complains playfully as we climb out of bed. We head down to dinner. I feel so much better. After sleeping. After talking.

Dinner is light so we can still eat with the Sponsors later. Cinna tells me about the dresses I'll be wearing tonight. The concert is black tie. I wish I could wear a suit, but Cinna tells me I have a formal ball gown for the concert itself and then I'll change for the cocktail hour. Apparently there is such a thing as a cocktail dress. A whole style of dress that exists specifically for drinking cocktails. The Capitol amazes me with its frivolity sometimes.

My prep team chatters on and on about the violinist from tonight as they get me ready. I can't understand why I need a new color on my nails every night.

"You must be excited to see her play," I say, and they all laugh in that fake way I've come to distinguish from their genuine flourishes. "I'll tell Effie we'll need three more tickets." My team gets quiet. They don't know how to react to someone being kind. I don't really either. I don't take compliments well. I don't want anyone's charity; it just means I'll owe them later. We aren't all that different – my prep team and me. On the outside we are, obviously. And even what preoccupies our minds is vastly dissimilar. But the idea of making it on your own. Earning what you have. I respect that about them. Knowing that one part of what makes them tick is so like me, it makes them feel more human.

"I owe you, anyway," I say. "For all those products you sent me home with after the Games." It's true. I needed a whole bag just for the bottles of creams and goops and oils and other potions they sent to keep my hair soft or my skin clear. I never used any of it, I mostly gave it to Prim, but knowing what a price the Capitol puts on beauty, it must have cost a tiny fortune.

"Well, if we were there we could help transition you into your second look," Venia adds, some hopefulness in her voice.

"We'd love to, Katniss. Thank you," Octavia says, and Venia twitters incomprehensible noises and claps her hands.

The ball gown reaches the floor. The bodice is fitted, and the skirt is full. There are layers and layers underneath it. I wonder how I'll be able to sit in this. You'd think I'd be comfortable playing dress up by now, but every time I just feel a little less like myself. It's too bad Prim isn't here. She'd swoon for a dress like this.

When I come downstairs, the rest of the team is already waiting. My prep team frets and fidgets, adjusting one another's clothes or accessories. Effie gives them a strict look, and they fall silent. Peeta steps forward to greet me.

"You look like royalty," he whispers, kissing my cheek.

"I can barely breathe in this," I complain, awkwardly shifting myself in the dress.

The concert itself is enchanting. I expect to be bored, but when the violinist draws her bow across the strings, something inside me shifts. I find myself holding my breath, wistfully pulled into the melody her violin sings to us. It reminds me of the birds singing in my woods at home. It reminds me of Rue. It reminds me of what it feels like to be free, even if only in fleeting, sad moments. The violin weeps in lament, then tells a story of joy and happiness. When the concert draws to a close, I find myself without words. I catch Haymitch smiling at me, and I pretend to yawn.

My prep team changes me into the cocktail dress – shorter and freer than the gown. They each kiss my cheeks in farewell and gratitude. I'm uncomfortable, but I just let it be.

The cocktail hour is in a large room with white tile floors. A bar lines one wall, decorated with bottles of alcohol in all colors. Stemware hangs from a rack above the bartender's head, each glass a different shape and size, from giant goblets to what I heard Effie refer to as flutes.

My dress is pure white and I don't dare eat or drink in it. I wonder if Cinna is playing up the marriage card. I assume so. Remind them I'm a blushing bride-to-be. It was Haymitch's advice, too. Make nice. I squeeze Peeta's hand tight and let him do most the talking. He's a natural conversationalist and soon is charming Sponsors left and right. Who knows, maybe our Tributes will have a chance next year with someone like Peeta on their side.

Effie comes over with a dozen or so sponsors. "Children! I have some very important people I'd like you to meet!" she sing-songs. "These generous patrons are responsible for that delightful meal Haymitch sent you!"

"The china was my idea," drolls a fat woman with teal hair.

"The china was… lovely," I say, trying to sound gracious. The china was ridiculous. We could have used so many other things with the money they sent spending china into the Arena. Send the food in a plastic bag for all I care. Peeta goes on and on about how romantic it all felt, and I see the woman fawning over his every word.

"I shouldn't tell you this, but I wanted to send you help earlier," she attempts to whisper to Peeta, but her nasal voice carries across the group. "But Haymitch was only collecting Sponsors for that skinny girl you're stuck with," she adds salaciously.

"Oh, I know," Peeta flirts. "That's what I wanted. Haymitch knew that. I wanted Katniss to get out." I know Peeta means it, but I have to imagine while he was dying alone in the Arena, that he must have felt incredibly alone. I swallow hard.

That night, wrapped around each other in his bed, I try to make Peeta feel less alone. I tug his shirt over his head, and I pull mine off and throw it on the floor. I lay my head on his chest and press my body along his side, so our skin is touching everywhere. I feel him breathe in a shaky breath, and exhale. He's not alone anymore.


	31. The Capitol - Day 4

Sometime in the night, Peeta must have gotten up and locked his door, because we wake to Haymitch banging on it noisily. He's counting down, like my mother used to do to force Prim or me to do something, back when she actually parented. I feel Peeta drawing his eyes over my bare back as I stand and pull my nightshirt back over my body. I look over my shoulder at him and he bites his lip before burying his face in a pillow.

"Okay, we hear you," I say as I open the door. Haymitch stands in the hallway, red in the face from the exertion. He looks almost comical. "Geez, really worried about the wrath of Effie Trinket, aren't you?"

"Get dressed. You have guests," Haymitch says in an even tone. The playful smile melts quickly from my face.

"We'll be right down," I say, and close the door quietly. Peeta can sense the tone has shifted. He sits up.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I don't know. We need to go downstairs. Do I have clothes in here?" I ask, looking around the room. I don't know who is below and I don't want them seeing me walk back to my room in bare legs. "What did I wear over here?"

"Um, I might have some pants you can borrow. Maybe something with a draw string?" he says, digging through his drawers. That's almost worse. I open his closet and find a couple plain dresses hanging.

"Did you put these in here?" I ask.

"No," Peeta replies, looking just as confused as I do. Cinna? Portia? My team? Regardless, I pull one from the closet and throw it on. I pull out my hair and braid it quickly.

Seated at the dining table is a tall woman with dark skin and hair. She wears fitted clothes and leather gloves. While she's obviously not military, she almost looks militaristic in her posture – back straight, shoulder back. Absent is the gaudy hair and make-up of most Capitol women. She looks familiar. I know I've seen her before. Flanking her around the table are at least a dozen Peacekeepers, as if she's being sent in for hostile negotiations and not a conversation with two teenagers.

"Mr. Mellark. Miss Everdeen. Please have a seat," she says, gesturing to the chairs across from her. Haymitch stands a few feet away, his back leaned against the wall. The woman's voice is deep and gruff, but has a feminine hint slipping in at the end of her sentences. She's a serious person, and I feel stupid sitting her in a short dress like a small child on her first day of school.

"My name is Egeria Nunn. I serve as Capitol Minister of Affairs, and also as President Snow's Chief of Staff," she explains, and I swallow hard. I know where I remember her now. Leaning over his shoulder, always a few steps behind him in televised remarks. She's a confidant. She's in power. And, more than likely, she knows. I don't react to her announcement. I'm not sure how to play this, instead, I just stare at her coldly. Any associate of Snow is an enemy. I see Peeta in my peripheral vision, and his back stiffens as mine does.

"We're so pleased you came to visit us personally, Minister," Peeta says cordially, a fake smile plastered to his lips. "It's an honor."

"President Snow wanted to ensure you were looked after during your stay," she says precisely. She chooses her words carefully. Looked after. Watched.

"How generous of him," I add, but less convincingly than Peeta. Aggression loiters in my tone like steam under the lid of a boiling pot. An Avox silently appears and places a cup of tea in front of the traitor. She picks it up with her gloved hands and brings it to her lips, not addressing the servant. The presence of Avoxes in our suite again makes me shift uneasily in my seat. They are a reminder of the power of the Capitol. They are a threat. But mostly, they are a tragic pawn in a bigger game. I imagine being unable to speak ever again. I wonder if Snow might one day cut out my tongue.

"President Snow would like you to know how pleased he is with your engagement. You must be very eager to share your happiness with the people of Panem," Minister Nunn states evenly. It doesn't sound like a congratulatory remark. I can read between the lines. They want a Capitol wedding, and soon. In a way I'm relieved. That Snow is focused on our marriage, and not the riots in the Districts, means we might be doing something right. But it doesn't make the rock in my throat choke me any less.

"Of course," I say quietly.

"I hope your family will be well enough to attend. Your sister. Your _cousin_ ," she implies. We are still watching them, is what she means. They are still the chips you choose to gamble if you step out of line. As if it's my choice at all. The reassurance I felt only a moment ago fades.

"Prim will be thrilled," I offer.

"Good," the woman says, and rises from her seat. "I think we have an understanding, then," she concludes, reaching out her hand. Mine feels tiny in hers, the sweat of my palms sticking to the leather gloves like a tell. I'm not as calm as I look. When I meet her eyes, though, for a second I see something flash there. Empathy. Grief. I try to find it again, but as soon as she's exposed herself she's turned to Peeta, the frozen mask of obedience finding its place again.

She doesn't even address Haymitch before leaving the room, her escort of guards following in her wake. I gasp for air once she's gone, and realize I've been holding my breath. I lock eyes with Haymitch. We don't have to speak. Something must be happening somewhere in the Districts. They need a distraction. They need a different narrative.

"Tonight you have separate events," Haymitch says, and my stomach churns. "Peeta, you are going on a tour of one of the most famous Capitol bakeries. Focus on the wedding. Wedding cakes, wedding hors devours, wedding favors. Don't stop talking about it. The wedding and Katniss." Peeta nods solemnly in compliance. Haymitch turns his attention to me. "You are dining with this year's Head Gamemaker."

"Alone?" I ask, almost recoiling physically away from him.

"How does that play into our love story? Katniss out with another man?" Peeta asks, not liking this idea any better than me.

Haymitch ignores us. "You met him already at the earlier event. It's only an hour. You can do this." I realize who he means. The fat man who kissed my hand with his filthy lips. I feel it now, like paste, and I irrationally start rubbing my skin.

"Why don't I do my event in the afternoon, and then I can join them for dinner?" Peeta offers. Yes. I need a buffer between me and that pale Capitol scum.

"Plutarch only wants her," Haymitch says.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean? I don't like this," Peeta insists.

"Actually kid, that's good. Keep up the jealous bit. It will play well for the cameras," Haymitch tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Peeta shrugs him off.

"I'm not jealous. I don't want her alone with him," he says again. I let the two of them argue and hope Peeta wins.

"This will be good for us. The Head Gamemaker always shares intel with the previous year's victor. This will help our kids in the next Games," Haymitch says. And then I realize. _This will help Prim._

"I'll do it," I say definitively. Peeta gives me a look, but this is my call.

"Okay," he says with resignation. "When is all this happening?"

"You have a couple hours," Haymitch says. He looks at me and sees I'm still not settled, even though I'm agreeing. He narrows his eyes at me. "You're not a child anymore, sweetheart. You're a Victor. You're about to be a Mentor. Your Games are over. You have bigger responsibilities now."

I can't help but laugh at him, one sarcastic burst of air from my lungs. "Are you kidding me?"

"What is your problem?" he says, standing a little straighter.

"My problem? I just can't seem to follow whether I'm a child you need to protect or an adult that's not living up to your unattainable expectations," I spit back. I think for a second he's hurt, but when I blink his face has hardened. "I can't make a decision, Haymitch, if you keep picking and choosing what to tell me. You can't keep me in the dark forever. I know something is going on."

We're toe to toe, and I'm treading on dangerous ground with the listening devices all around. "This is why I don't tell you things," he says coldly, before grabbing a muffin from the table and leaving the room. This isn't his fault, but I'm so angry right now it's better he goes.

I cross to the window sill where Peeta sat the night before our last Games. Where he told me he didn't want to change in the Arena. He did, though. We both did. We'll never get that innocence back. Peeta joins me, his back pressed against the other side of the window. He hands me some cold toast.

"You need to eat," he says, and I munch on it while I stew. We don't really talk. We watch the people below. We spend nearly an hour in silence, drinking coffee in the window. The anger starts to fade, and I shift to resentment. I look across as Peeta, and his eyes look sad.

"You okay?" I ask, nudging his foot with mine.

"Yeah, I just…" Peeta stops talking and looks out the window.

"What?" I prod gently.

"I know you probably never want to get married for real, but I just didn't want any of it to be like this," he says. I can't comfort him. I don't have any encouraging words. He's not wrong, and this isn't something I can fix. Instead I just crawl across the window and wrap my arms around his neck.

"If I stab Plutarch Heavensbee in the neck with a steak knife tonight, would that help?" I ask in a soft, romantic voice. Peeta chuckles.

"You're a weird girl," he says as he pulls me into his lap.

"You like it," I reply, and he brings his mouth to mine. He's smiling. I feel a small victory. I rest my head on his chest. "I need to apologize to Haymitch," I say.

"Yeah," Peeta admits, but we don't make any attempt to move.

"Later," I whisper.

"Yeah," he whispers back, pressing a kiss into my hair. Peeta leaves soon after to get ready. Our events are consecutive to one another, so I still have a couple hours to kill. I leave the suite and wander down the hall. I know Haymitch is still around here somewhere. I find him and Effie sitting in one of the small lounges off the main hall. He's drinking coffee and she has a hand on his shoulder. When she spies me in the door frame her posture straightens and she moves away from him on the couch. Haymitch looks up at me and then back down to his coffee. Effie rises from the couch and clicks past me out the room. "Good luck!" she chirps under her breath as she walks by.

I make my way over to Haymitch and drop next to him. We are both quiet for a while. We are too similar for our own good. Finally Haymitch gets up and starts to leave the room. He pauses at the door and looks back at me. "You coming?" he asks, and I quickly catch up.

The ceilings in the Tribute Center are high up. "Cathedral" Effie calls them, although I've never heard that word before and I'm not sure why "high" isn't good enough to describe them. We follow a couple corridors until we are at a utility stairwell. The door is marked with an alarm, but when Haymitch pushes the bar nothing happens. We step inside and he closes it behind him slowly.

"They had a fire in here two years ago. Sprinklers drowned all the cameras and listening devices. They haven't replaced them yet, so we can talk in here," he says.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"Never mind," he dismisses the question. There's only so much time we can spend in a stairwell before it starts to look suspicious. I stare at him, expecting the conversation to start. Expecting him to start explaining himself. Instead, he looks just as expectantly back at me.

"I'm sorry, okay?" I spurt out. Not my sincerest moment. I sigh. "I'm sorry," I say quietly. I am.

"What do you want to know?" Haymitch asks.

"Is there something happening?" I ask immediately.

"Yes," he says.

"And it's more than just you. And Cinna. And Portia," I add.

"Yes," he answers again.

"Are you trying to rebel?" I ask.

"Yes," he says.

"Haymitch, you're going to get yourself killed," I reply, my forehead stitched with concern.

"Probably," he states, as if it's not a big deal. As if losing him won't matter to anyone.

"Are you… in charge?" I ask.

He laughs a little, although I don't think any of this is funny. "I have some influence. I have some control. I'm not in charge, though, no."

"Well then who is?" I push back.

"You don't know them. A name isn't going to mean anything to you, but if you get caught they could torture it out of you, and I'd rather not risk it," he says. After a moment he adds, "For your sake."

"How do you think you can possibly take down the Capitol? They have a military. You saw their bases in Two!" I try to rationalize with him. "What do we have that could possibly stand up to that?"

"You," he says softly, and the room stills. I hear my heart pounding in my ears.

"That's ridiculous," I spit out. It is. It's absolutely ridiculous, and if I'm their secret weapon, I have less faith in this revolution than I did before this conversation.

"You have an effect on people, Katniss. You make them believe," he states.

"Yeah right," I quickly retort. "You saw me spend an entire Tour trying to make them believe I loved Peeta, and no one bought it. We didn't calm any riots. We didn't ease any unrest. If anything, we made it worse," I say, realizing the full implications of our failure. I already know we didn't succeed. "Gale," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

"This has been brewing for a long time, sweetheart. This wouldn't be the first explosion in a mine to silence someone," he states, and I let it sink in.

"My dad?" I ask because I can't stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. I think of him complaining about the Capitol in the solace of the woods. I think about him singing forbidden songs, teaching his daughter to hunt, to provide, as if he knew he wouldn't be here forever. I don't want to know that he sacrificed himself for that. That he chose to be part of something that meant we'd be without him. That despite everything he fought for, his daughter was still reaped. Haymitch doesn't answer me. He doesn't have to. "Why are you telling me this?" I cry, pulling away from him. "You think I'm going to risk Gale, risk my sister, for some piss poor idea of a revolution that's been decades in the works and has done _nothing_?"

"What would Gale want, if he knew?" Haymitch counters. "What would Prim want?"

"I don't care!" I gasp. The idea of Snow killing someone to silence me has been abstract to this point. He hurt Peeta the last time we stepped too far out of line, but now I know what the loss really feels like. It's very very real. He took my father. "He killed my dad," I whisper.

"I know, sweetheart," Haymitch says, resting his hand on my shoulder. I lean into him.

"He killed my dad," I state again, my voice growing colder. Angrier.

"I know," he says, and the words hang around us in the air.

"He killed my dad."


	32. The Capitol - Day 4 Night

I keep my eyes glued to the menu in front of me. We are in the luxury of the Capitol, so most of these dishes mean nothing to me. The descriptions do little to help. I seem to discern from the menu that haricot verts are some kind of string bean. I don't know why they have to make up names for things. Just call it what it is. I feel Plutarch's eyes on me. He's clearly decided ages ago what he was having, but I'll waste as much time hiding behind this menu as humanly possible. When the waiter comes over for a third time, I finally order squab. From what I gather, it's like a tiny chicken. I regretfully hand over my menu, and find myself face-to-face with a Head Gamemaker.

I try not to stab him in the leg with my steak knife.

The waiter sets down a flute of champagne in front of each of us. "I've been avoiding punch ever since your training," Plutarch winks as he takes the glass by the stem.

"Oh, you're the one…" I start to chuckle. He's the man who tripped backwards when I shot the apple out of the pig's mouth.

"Ah, well at least my misery finally got a smile out of you," he relays, before raising his glass in a toast to our meal. As the crystals clink in the middle of the table, photographs flash from either side. Inside, I'm furious. After what Haymitch told me, I have no interest in playing the part of a Capitol puppet anymore. What will the rebels think when they see me smiling with a Gamemaker? I don't even recognize myself.

I swallow hard and remind myself he might have information for me on the upcoming Games. Something that might save Prim's life. I play along. The press files out, photo ops achieved. The restaurant has been cleared except for us, and I feel very exposed at the center of this massive dining room. The plates are delicate and hand-painted. A bottle of expensive-looking olive oil perches in the middle of the table, the glass blown into intricate scrolls.

"You must be very honored to have been named Head Gamemaker," I say, my eyes following the curves of the bottle.

"Between you and me, there weren't many takers for the job. So much… _responsibility_." Plutarch says, winking again. I think he believes this makes him look friendly, but instead I just imagine he has some pestering eye infection, and maybe one day his eyeball will shrivel up and fall out, and he'll have to wear an unattractive patch. I smile to myself.

"Yeah, and I heard the last guy's dead," I say nonchalantly, and Plutarch nearly chokes on his champagne.

"Yes. Seneca Crane. A tragic accident," Plutarch says after composing himself with the appropriate amount of feigned concern. An accident. I bet.

"Are you planning the Quarter Quell already?" I ask. Let's get right to the point.

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you that," he chortles. "But yes. The Quarter Quell has been in planning for years, of course. Arenas don't build themselves overnight!" The waiter approaches our table, unfolding the cloth napkins and placing them on our laps. It's awkward, but Plutarch acts as though he expects this kind of service. He can't _possibly_ put his own napkin on his own lap. "However, the… how do you say… the flavor of the Games is still being sorted out. And that's really where I come into play."

"Really?" I say, leaning my chin on my hand and pretending I'm fascinated. "You're that powerful?"

Plutarch beams at the compliment. "Of course! We are in heavy debate, this week in fact, over the different traps we might use. Many of the Gamemakers are pushing for more pyrotechnics, after the success of the Girl on Fire," he winks at me again. "But I think it might be a tad overdone. I'm looking for something that's constantly being wound up. A new danger every time, per se."

He talks about the arena as if it's full of landmines. A new danger depending where you step. I remind myself to ask Haymitch what pyrotechnics are. "That must be very expensive," I suppose, fishing for more details.

"Nearly _twelve_ times as expensive, if I had to estimate. But no corner should be cut! It is a Quarter Quell, after all," Plutarch adds lavishly.

Our dinner is served. Plutarch ordered some kind of seafood dish that comes with its own special fork. It's a bit too prissy for me. It looks like art, not food. It turns out squab is a tiny roasted bird, nearly whole, save for its head. My eyes drift over to Plutarch. He picks up the silverware daintly and begins dissecting his meal. I cut a bite off my bird with a fork and knife. It tastes a little like groosling.

I remember little Rue. I remember giving her my groosling, her eyes wide with astonishment, as if two wings were a feast. I remember the children starving in my District, lying on my mother's kitchen table, their stomachs distended in hunger. I look up at Plutarch – a picture of gluttony, years of overindulgence swelling at his belt. He swirls the shellfish in a sauce and plops it in his fat mouth. How can he live like this, knowing there are nursing mothers too famished to produce milk for their babies? Children taking out tesserae to feed their starving parents? I see Prim – gaunt and bony after our father died. After the Capitol took him from us.

I lift the bird from my plate and rip the flesh from the bone with my teeth. This is how I'd eat this if we were lucky enough to have food on the dinner table at home. I feel the grease drip down my chin. The eyes of the restaurant staff fall still on me. Plutarch's mouth hangs open. I smile at him with a mouth full of bird. "This is so good," I say, spitting bits of my meal on the table as I speak. I continue that way until there's nothing in front of me but a pile of tiny bones. I wipe my hands on my skirt and my chin on the table cloth. Plutarch pushes his meal aside, thoroughly unappetized. "Are you gonna eat that?" I point, and he shakes his head vehemently. I slide the dish across the table and start sucking the mussels from their shells with my lips. It makes a hideous slurping sound when they slide down my gullet, and I'm almost as disgusted as he is, but I keep going. "We never waste food at home," I say, scooping the last bits of juice from his plate with my fingers and sucking it off. I wish I could summon a belch, but I can't so instead I wipe my face with my napkin and throw it on the table.

The waiter approaches us with a busboy, who swiftly clears the plates away. "Could I interest you in any dessert?" he inquires, nervously eyeing me as I pick pieces of squab from my teeth with my knife.

"That will be all," Plutarch says. The wait staff gratefully flees. "I apologize for ending our evening, Katniss, but I actually have a strategy meeting tonight, if you can believe it!"

I don't believe it. He wants to run. I'm exceedingly pleased with myself and grin widely. "Oh, really? What a shame!" I lie.

Plutarch leans back from the table and reaches into his vest pocket, pulling out a gold watch on a chain. He flips open the watch to check the time, frowning. "Regretfully, I will need to excuse myself," he apologizes, turning the watch so I can see it. "It starts at midnight."

"Isn't that late for –" I start, but I lose my words. As Plutarch runs his thumb over the crystal face of the watch, an image appears, glowing like candlelight. A mockingjay. It vanishes as soon as it appears, and he snaps the watch closed. Maybe I was seeing things. Why would he carry a symbol of my token?

"That's very pretty," I say.

"Oh, it's more than pretty. It's one of a kind," he says. Plutarch rises from the table, bids me "adieu" and leaves. I sigh out in relief.

An escort of Peacekeepers drives me back to the Tribute Center. The lights are all out. Our team must have gone home for the evening. I check the clock on the wall - it's nearly one. I open the door to my room and find it empty. I throw my dress on the floor. I hope Cinna isn't too mad, but it's completely ruined with grease stains. I wash my face and brush my teeth. My mind is a mess. I'm not sure if I messed up tonight or not. I certainly let my emotions get the better of me. I need to stop thinking about it. I stare at my empty bed – the silver silk sheets folded under a heavy satin quilt. My skin is burning with anger and I imagine the fabric lifting the heat from my body. But it's not enough.

I creep out of the door to Peeta's room. I don't knock anymore, I just slip inside. Peeta's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. When he sees me at his door relief drifts across his face. He's out of bed immediately, his arms wrapped around me. I let myself sink into him.

"Finally," he sighs, breathing me in. We just stand there for a while. "How was your day?" he asks quietly.

"Awful," I reply, burying my face in his chest. "Yours?" I pose, though my voice is muffled in the fabric of his tee shirt.

"Same," he says. I pull my face up and he rests his forehead on mine. "I'm so glad you're home." It's weird that he's referring to this place as home. It still feels sterile and foreign to me, despite all the time we've spent here. But I realize quickly he's not talking about where we are. Home is wherever we end up together.

"I don't want to think about it anymore," I whisper.

"Okay," he says, not moving. I lay a soft kiss in the crook of his neck and I feel his body react beside me. I pull my mouth up, dragging my lips along his neck until I find the place under his jaw where his pulse hammers in his throat. I place my mouth there, sensitive to its steadily increasing rhythm, and kiss him lightly. His hands slip up the back of my shirt, rough on my skin. I perch on my tiptoes and kiss his mouth – wet and hot and ready for me. He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth and heat pools deep inside me. I press my body into his, and his hands drop to my thighs and he hoists me up. I wrap my legs around his waist as he takes a few hefty steps forward until he presses me into a wall.

For this one moment I want to forget. I don't want to think about the rebellion, or Snow, or his threats. All I want is to feel something that isn't terror or regret. I don't want to be angry all the time. The way Peeta's moving his mouth on mine, it's like he's trying to forget something too. He just wants to be in this moment with me, and nowhere else. My feet slide to the floor. We're both panting and pulling at each other, not knowing what we want but not wanting to stop. Peeta tugs my earlobe into his mouth and it tickles in a way that makes my stomach twist into ecstatic yet uncomfortable knots. He grabs one of my wrists and presses it hard against the wall, and in a way I like that he's in control. I trust him, and everything feels so out of control right now. I just want him to fix me.

He runs his mouth down my arm and finally weaves his fingers in mine, loosening his grip until my arm drops onto his shoulder. I want my hands to do something, and I'm terrified. I run my fingers along his stomach as his mouth covers mine, his tongue dipping inside, knowing me in a way only he does. When I tug at the waistband of his shorts I feel him give a sharp inhale. His eyes flash open and he's staring at me fiercely. His hands are on either side of me on the wall, and I watch the muscles in his arms shake as I slide my hand into his boxers. His eyes open wide in wonder and pleasure as I move my hand around him, almost like he can't believe this is happening.

His skin is impossibly soft, although he feels hard as a rock in my fingers. I pull my hand upward, swirling my palm over the tip of him and he groans into my mouth. He's silky and wet and I repeat the motion. His entire body shakes, and he collapses onto his elbows, bringing him closer to me. The angle changes slightly but I just keep moving my hand, slowly at first and then faster as his breathing picks up pace. I can't rip my eyes from his face. His brow furrows and he bites his lip, trying to silence the soft moaning but not quite succeeding. I can feel the heat billowing from his body, his skin radiant and drenched in a sheen of sweat. He opens his eyes to look at me. "Katniss, I…" I swirl my hand over him and he groans, his chest dropping onto mine. He sighs into my shoulder, and his hot breath on my skin makes me shake beneath him. It only makes him more alive. I squeeze my hand tighter as I pull it up, following the lead his body is giving me, and I feel him shatter. His body locks and then shakes, and he collapses his entire weight into me. The wall, which felt cold when we first moved into it, now exudes our heat back to us. Peeta is sweaty and we've made a mess, but he smiles brightly at me as he plants soft kisses all over my face. He can barely breathe and finally collapses at my feet, resting his head on my legs.

"That was amazing," he whispers, stroking my hip with the palm of his hand. We stay this way for a while, and I run my other hand through his hair, still soft and falling in smooth ringlets around his face. He hums a happy sigh into me, and we finally get up and clean up in the bathroom. He seems a little embarrassed about it all in the stark white light, but I shush him. I run a wet washcloth over his face and he gives me a spare shirt to wear. When we finally curl together in bed, I drift into a happy, thoughtless sleep.


	33. The Capitol - Day 5

Peeta didn't sleep most of the night, something about his day keeping him awake. The next morning, Peeta's already in the shower when I wake up. I know we have to talk today. I need to tell him about what's happened. I'm not sure where to go. We can't keep sneaking away to the utility stairwell or the Capitol will start to get suspicious, although two teenagers in love will draw less suspicion than Haymitch and me. I walk down to breakfast ahead of Peeta. Haymitch and Effie are already there, which has gotten to be routine. Off the alcohol, Haymitch has adopted somewhat of a normal sleeping pattern, although he's miserable to be around until the afternoon. I can tell Haymitch is anxious to talk about yesterday, but he waits until Peeta comes down.

I eat some oatmeal. Normally Peeta mixes it with maple syrup and nuts for me, but I don't know what I'm doing and it comes out too sweet and lumpy. I'm from 12, though, so I eat it begrudgingly. Peeta comes galloping down the stairs, a wide grin across his face. His hair is still wet from his shower. He says the drying mat doesn't work right since he lost a foot, so he just skips it altogether. "Morning," he says cheerfully to the group before plopping down beside me, grabbing an apple.

"Morning?" I say, one eyebrow cocked. What is he so happy about? Has he forgotten the impending threats on our lives and those of everyone we love? Or that we may be on the brink of a revolution that will take lives from both sides? That we don't know who will fall in the fight to save Panem?

"So, how'd everything go yesterday?" Haymitch asks. From what he said earlier, much of Peeta's bakery tour was televised, but it was mostly panoramic shots of the bakery focused on sweets and delicacies. Clearly the owner must be a friend of the president, because the way Haymitch describes it, it seems more like a commercial for his bakery than a piece on Peeta or our wedding.

"Oh, it was fine," Peeta says indifferently, stabbing a few pancakes with his fork and bringing them to his plate. I give him a skeptical look. Last night Peeta was pretty upset about his day. He catches my stare and looks confused. "What?" he asks, and looks around to find all of us staring at him. "I was upset last night, but the more I think about it, the more I think I did the right thing."

"What right thing?" Haymitch asks with a leading tone.

"I just told them I wasn't using their stupid bakery and my dad would make my wedding cake," he says, stuffing a large bite of pancakes into his mouth.

"You didn't!" Effie cries out. "Peeta, you don't know who that is. The owner at that bakery is the top pastry chef in Panem!"

Peeta snorts and gives her a wicked grin. "You only say that because you've never had my dad's meringue."

"He's President Snow's brother," Haymitch adds, and the color drains from Peeta's face. I feel a rock form in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly my heart is beating so fast I it's like I have a hummingbird trapped in my ribcage.

"You don't think you should have told me that?" Peeta cries out, pushing himself away from the table. I tell myself to go to him, but I just sit in my seat paralyzed. Would Snow destroy the bakery as retribution? His brother has been humiliated by some merchant kid. Passed over for a dirty old bakery in the poorest district in the nation. It would be easy. A gas leak. Faulty wiring in one of the old ovens. He could burn the Mellark bakery to the ground and no one would be the wiser. I know Peeta's mind is racing to the same conclusion. He drops to the floor.

"I didn't know until last night," Haymitch says almost soundlessly.

"I just wanted one thing about the wedding to be real, and now I…" he whispers, burying his head in his knees.

"Don't be silly, it's still official if you're married in the Capitol. It's still real," Effie insists, the whole situation flying completely over her head.

"We'll apologize," I manage, my words not entirely comforting. I'm grasping at straws.

"It wasn't on tape, right?" Haymitch asks.

Peeta shakes his head. "The cameras had already left. I wasn't rude or anything. I just… Every Mellark makes his own child's wedding cake. My grandfather made my dad's. I'll make my child's, someday…" As he rambles the look on his face grows even more despondent. He'll never have any children if he's forced to marry me. Or if Snow forces us to conceive, they'll never make it to their wedding day alive. They'll die in an Arena. There are no Mellark wedding cakes in his future.

"We'll go back today," I offer. "Together. We'll pick out a cake on live television. We can even do a cake tasting, right Effie?" I add.

"Oh that would be very popular indeed!" Effie chimes in.

"That would work, right Haymitch?" I throw my eyes to him desperately.

"Yeah, I think so. I need to make some calls," Haymitch says, rising from his seat. "Effie, you too. Cancel today's events. Let's make this happen."

They both swiftly leave. Peeta is still sitting on the floor. I sit next to him.

"He's going to kill my family," he says under his breath.

"We don't know that," I offer. I'm not the wordsmith Peeta is. All I can do is be here with him, so that's what I try to do.

"It's not real if my dad doesn't make the cake," he whispers. I can see him fighting back tears, and I look at my hands, trying to give him some privacy.

"It was never real, anyway," I say. It obviously doesn't help. He turns away from me. I rest my head on his back. I feel him trembling slightly. We're quiet. "When you marry me for real, your dad will make the cake. And I'll wear one of my mom's old dresses." I feel him stop breathing. I don't know if this will ever really happen. I don't know where these words are coming from. I wrap my arms around his waist. "Prim will have flowers in her hair. Rye will get you absolutely hammered the night before, and Bannock will sneak coffee in your room for your splitting headache." I hear him chuckle softly. "Your mom's not invited," I add, and he laughs in earnest.

Peeta clears his throat and stands up, offering me a hand. He pulls me from the floor. When I stand he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me hard. He knows what I said might not come true. But it's something to hope for. We're not without hope. "You're a good friend," he says softly. His voice is serious. Sincere. I hold him back, and I realize there is so much more between us than circumstance. Than chemistry. Than the situation we are in. Than even this romance we've found ourselves caught up in.

"So you'll never believe what I did at dinner," I say, and he pulls back.

"You didn't actually stab him, did you?" Peeta asks jokingly. The mood lightens. I tell him about the meal, about Plutarch's stupid fat face and his stupid wink and his stupid special fork. And how I ate the dinner like I'd been in the Arena a week without food. Peeta is crying laughing by the time I tell him I sucked the oysters from their shells, and picked my teeth with a knife, and scared off the busboy.

"There were no cameras," I shrug with a conniving smile.

We don't exactly know what's going on today, so I go to my room and shower. Peeta watches the footage on television meticulously, but neither of our indiscretions seem to have made any waves. "Turn it off," I beg after hours drag by.

When our prep teams show up, I take it as a good sign. Haymitch and Effie must have been able to work something out. My prep is low-key. I can tell Cinna is going for the young and innocent look again, as my make-up is soft and light. The dress they fit me in reminds me of vanilla and drops to my knees. I wonder if everything I wear will be some shade of white up until the wedding. I look at myself in the mirror. I look like myself. I look young. Sometimes I forget.

When Peeta comes out of his room, I can see Portia is going for the same thing. He's dressed in light colors. Linen. They've cut his hair, and it makes him look younger. Boyish. Between the way the two of us look, I wonder if the nation might start to agree with my mother. Wishful thinking…

When we come downstairs, Effie and Haymitch are waiting with Cinna and Portia. Peeta and I each go to our respective stylists. Cinna slides a tiny headband in my hair. I look demure. I know that's what he's trying to achieve. "Smile. Flirt. Eat lots of cake." He kisses my cheek and I feel better. Cinna believes we can do this. We can do this. Effie and Haymitch escort us to the bakery. It's almost like we have guardians. If anything, it reinforces the story. I don't complain. Haymitch doesn't give us advice in the car. We know what to do.

The bakery itself is stunning. The floors are marble, and it feels like there are miles of glass display cases, each featuring a new dessert. I saw the footage on television yesterday, but it's nothing compared to seeing it in person. Rows upon rows are chocolates – truffles and dipped exotic fruits and solid bars dusted with gold flakes. There is a bar of hot chocolates, and wall of cheesecakes. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling every twenty feet or so, and they refract colored light all over the room. It's the most stunning place I've been to. Normally I'd think Peeta would be in heaven here, but I feel him next to me. Everything about him is fake – his smile, his posture, his words. This is torture for him.

We are brought to a table of tiny cake samples, which are frankly exquisite. Between each sample, the chef explains to the camera the flavor and frosting. Decadent and airy white cake with a strawberry butter cream frosting. Marbled pistachio. Rum. Hazelnut cream with a crunchy toffee accent. Lemon poppy seed. Chocolate chiffon with mocha. My favorite is the red velvet with cream cheese. Peeta smiles and makes insightful and praise-filled compliments on each cake. He uses a self-deprecating humor that I'm sure plays well for the viewers but makes my heart hurt.

Snow's brother looks eerily like him, and I wonder how Peeta didn't notice the resemblance. He is healthier and more vibrant than Snow, even though they seem to be about the same age. His hair is white, but he has a fuller frame. He smiles easily, which puts me on edge. He seems to be genuinely kind, and his eyes twinkle, but I don't trust him. It's probably a front. When his niece skips up to him, I freeze. Her hair is tied in a braid like mine, running down the side of her tiny frame. She's small and bright. Her uncle beams and the cameras gobble it up. She's nervous to meet me, and hides behind her uncle, peeking out and giggling. She reminds me a little of Prim. "Go ahead," he coaxes, and she finally steps forward. She's too shy to say anything, so I offer her a piece of cake, which she eats bashfully, blushing as she watches me.

Snow's granddaughter. I make the connection.

"So, what have we decided?" the man asks, his hands open to us.

"You pick, Katniss. Bride's choice," Peeta says. Translation: I don't want to do this. Get me out of here.

"Red velvet it is," I say, and place a soft kiss on his mouth. It says ignore them. It says come home with me.

"Excellent choice!" the chef claps, and the cameras cut away. Peeta weaves his hand in mine and practically pulls me out of the shop. I look over my shoulder and catch one last glimpse of the little girl, smiling at me from behind the counter. I wave at her, and she nearly shrieks in glee. Outside, there are swarms of reporters from magazines not exclusive enough to have been given press passes for the tasting itself. Their camera bulbs flash and they shout questions at us. Peeta's face is red. I kiss him on the cheek in a girlish way, and then distract the reporters by showing them my ring and gossiping like one of those flighty women we see at Capitol events. I watch Peeta duck into the car. I go on and on about the proposal, how excited I am to try on dresses, how pretty Prim will look, until I get the cue from Haymitch. I make a quick exit and he slams the car door behind me. Inside, Peeta stares out the window at nothing. I know he's worried for his family. He's hoping he's done enough. It's that same emotion that has hung foreboding over us for the whole tour. Have we kept our loved ones safe? Alive? I weave my hand in his and rub it with my thumb, but his hand is limp, his mind elsewhere.

"It was good, really good," Haymitch says. "I could see audience reactions on one of the feedback monitors. Everyone ate it up. That bakery will be legendary after doing your wedding."

"Good," I sigh in relief, but Peeta's still distant. I don't think he'll believe he's fixed anything until he sees his family alive again. I can't blame him.

"We'll be home soon," I whisper. I don't mean the Tribute Center. I mean 12. We only have a couple more days in the Capitol.

"I know," he says, his voice distant. The rest of the ride back is silent.

Peeta dismisses himself to his room, and Haymitch, Effie, and I eat a light meal. Haymitch excused the staff before we left, so we throw together sandwiches in the kitchen. I make a plate for Peeta for later and set it aside. It's weird being so informal around Effie. I didn't think she'd ever eat a sandwich, but in the privacy of our suite, she kicks off her shoes and puts the plate on her lap. Obviously the day has been wearing. Effie's not stupid. She knows something is going on, but she's eternally optimistic and so she forces herself into thinking this day was about cake and nothing more.

"Do you really think it was good, Haymitch?" I ask. He doesn't normally sugarcoat things for us, but Peeta isn't himself and I wonder if he's glossing things over.

"I do, I think it went really well," he says, chewing his sandwich slowly.

"Good enough?" I ask. He knows what I mean. Did we smooth over our offense, or is Peeta's family going to burn? He nods. I see Effie eyeing us, but she says nothing. She merely eats her sandwich quietly. I don't know why, but I trust Effie. I know she's part of the system, and from the Capitol, but she cares about us. And I think her eyes are opening to the atrocity of it all.

"I have an idea," Effie says after a long silence. "I'm taking Peeta on a field trip. We'll be back later." She rises from her seat, slips on her heels, and clicks up the stairs to his room. Not long later, he follows her out, and waves at me before disappearing with Effie. I look at Haymitch, but he just shrugs his shoulders.

Peeta doesn't come back until late. I'm already in bed when the door to my room creaks open. I roll over and see him in my doorway. "Oh, sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping," I say, sitting up. He walks over to my bed and kisses my mouth softly. "There's a sandwich for you on my nightstand," I whisper.

"Oh, great! I'm starving. Can I use your shower? Or I can go back to my room..."

"No, go ahead. Use mine," I say. He raises his hands to my face and kisses my forehead. That's when I see paint smudged on his arm. Reds and blues and greens speckle his fingers, and I can see bright yellow scraped under his thumbnail. "Were you at the train?" I ask. He nods and turns to go to the shower.

Effie brought him to paint.

She knows more than she lets on.


	34. The Capitol - Day 6

The next morning, I wake up early. Peeta finally came to bed around three, and he's sleeping soundly beside me. His body is curled into mine. His hair is a mess from sleeping on it wet. Usually folded in a neat stack, his clothes are crumpled in a pile on the floor of my bathroom. He doesn't have any sleeping clothes in here, so he's just wearing his boxers. Everything about him is warm and soft. I look at his face, trace his jawline with my eyes. He never grows any facial hair. I think they did something before our Games, because it's been months and he's certainly old enough to grow some. I'm not sure why they don't do the same treatment on my legs, but instead they insist on covering me head-to-toe in hot wax and ripping the hair from my body like they're pulling a stubborn weed from the earth.

Peeta stirs and I feel guilty waking him up. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. If I'm awake, he won't go back to sleep, and he's barely been in bed two or three hours. He seemed rejuvenated when he came to sleep last night. He seemed better. Like he had some control again. Peeta stretches his body out and drapes an arm over my waist. I feel his breathing slow and I let him pull me back under.

Effie and Haymitch don't come get us for breakfast. Peeta has never been a late sleeper. He told me his dad wakes the boys up at five to bake for a few hours before school. This morning, though, he's out like a light. Eventually I wake again, sneak my way out of bed, and head downstairs. I smile at Haymitch and Effie, then fill a plate full of fruit and muffins before plodding back up to my room. I set the food on my nightstand and take a shower. I have no idea what we are doing today. The feast at the President's Mansion is tomorrow. According to Effie, it is the event of the year.

When I come out of the bathroom, Peeta's sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes, his legs swung over the side. "Hey," he says sleepily, a lazy smile on his mouth. "Do you know where my leg is?"

"Um," I look around the room fruitlessly, until I finally drop to my knees and spy it under the bed. I lie on my belly and pull it out. "Do you want some food?" I gesture to the plate as I hand him his leg. He snaps it into place.

"Yeah, that's great." Peeta takes some pineapple and sucks the juice from his fingers. There are certain foods we've only ever had in the Capitol. The two of us cannot get enough of citrus fruits. Back home we feel too guilty to have them, even though as Victors we are wealthy enough to have them imported. It feels greedy. It feels dirty to have limes when there are children starving to death in the Seam.

There's a soft knock on my door. Peeta throws on his paint covered clothes from last night and I answer. Effie stands in the hallway, tapping her toe. Normally she just barges in, but she waits expectantly outside, asking silently for an invitation. I swing my arm and she flutters past me.

"Agenda for today children! Katniss, you will be with your prep team for most of the day in advance of tomorrow's event at the Mansion," Effie orders, eyes on her schedule.

"All day? We've been on tour for weeks, I can't possibly need that much work," I complain. Effie looks at me as if I'm speaking gibberish before turning her attention to Peeta.

"Peeta, you have a fitting today," she states.

"With Portia?" he asks, pulling apart the muffin and popping a bite in his mouth.

"No, at the hospital," she answers matter-of-factly.

Peeta's face looks perplexed for a second, and then realization spreads across it. I'm still lost. "For my leg?" Peeta asks excitedly, and she nods. He must have told her last night. Effie certainly has her ways. Peeta jumps to his feet and kisses Effie's cheek. She pretends to hate the impropriety of his affection, but her blushing smile gives her away. Peeta rushes out of the room past her, then, as if forgetting something, leans back into the doorframe.

"Bye!" he says to me with a huge grin on his face.

"Get out of here!" I say, smiling widely before I chuck a pillow at the door. He dodges it swiftly and exits. "Thank you, Effie," I add.

"Anything for my victors!" she tweets, as if it's no big deal, and clicks out of my room. This wild-wigged woman is weaseling her way into my heart.

The one good thing about an entire day of prep is that I get to spend a lot of it with Cinna. We spend most of the morning talking about tomorrow. He gives me a rundown on who's who, and gives me talking points. Fashion trends to recognize and compliment. After a while, I realize I've never asked him about himself – his life, his family. We've spent hours on the phone together but it's usually about me. When I do, though, he gets reclusive. He changes the topic to Haymitch's sobriety. We wonder if it will last. We don't think he's cheated at all, but he's only been sober a few days. I assume the moment we are back in 12 he'll be under the table.

Cinna agrees. "Especially without Effie to keep an eye on him," he adds with a wink, flashing his gold eyeliner.

"Hey, tomorrow... Can I have gold eyes like you?" I ask.

"Of course," Cinna replies, a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

"Lay back," Octavia commands before she covers my eyes with a hot towel.

"I just want to feel like you're there with me," I say quietly.

"I'll be there," Cinna replies, grabbing my hand. But he knows what I mean. Tomorrow we see Snow. Tomorrow we find out if we've done enough. Tomorrow I know if I've saved Gale. Prim. I want him with me, even when he can't be.

My pre-prep session ends right before dinner. The food is already on the table by the time Cinna and I make it downstairs. Peeta strides in the door and his lack of a limp is immediately perceptible. At least to me anyway. When Peeta first got his leg, it took a while to get full command of it. By the time he was finally used to it, he'd had a growth spurt. Even though he could manually adjust the height slightly, it never really fit exactly right. Or so he tells me. Most of that time we weren't speaking. Now he moves like it's a part of him. He feels more whole, I can tell just by looking at him.

Dinner is unusually pleasant, given what is at stake tomorrow. It's as if we're a normal family. We've sort of begun to feel like one, anyway. My prep team tries to file out unobtrusively after they've packed their things, but I call them over and they join us for dinner. Everyone claps when dessert is served. The chef has outdone himself for our last meal. The dessert is on fire, literally, but when you cut inside there is a center of ice cream still frozen at its core. It's really magnificent, and Peeta eyes me gaping at it, mouth wide.

"I just don't understand how the ice cream doesn't melt," I say. He kisses my cheek, and it flames red under his lips. I'm okay with all the fake public displays of affection, but that kiss was real and I'm quickly straightening my napkin on my lap. He grins at me wickedly.

"I'll explain later," he whispers in my ear, and my blush only deepens. I don't think he knows the effect he has on me, because as we enter our bedroom and he closes his door behind him, I shove him back into it forcefully. I'm not being gentle tonight. It's not the time for slow, delicious kissing. My skin is on fire. Peeta reacts in kind. I am pulling and tugging until I rip his shirt over his head. I drag my fingernails down his back and he groans into me.

"What brought this on?" Peeta asks, panting slightly in a way that makes everything inside me swirl. My hands move to his head and I massage his scalp with my nails as I stroke his bottom lip with my tongue. I can feel the muscles in his stomach quivering.

"I'm on fire," I breathe, and he scoops me into his arms and carries me into the bathroom, his mouth never leaving mine. He kicks off his shoes and steps inside the shower. He's only wearing pants, but I'm still fully dressed. He turns on the faucet and the water drenches us in the sudden rain shower.

"You're still wearing your shoes," he whispers in my ear, and I feel him grin against me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know the etiquette to standing in the shower with your clothes on," I whisper back, and we stop and look at each other. Everything is quiet and still, except for the sounds of the water hammering against our clothes and the walls. Normally when Peeta and I share an inside joke or a shared experience, it's always of something terrible that we've survived, but this isn't. We are remembering a good moment. We're building something together here.

It's absolutely terrifying.

He smiles, but my heart slams into my chest, kicking and screaming and trying to beat its way out of me. What am I doing? I am building a life with him. I'm making it so that we are so intertwined that even the thought of losing him makes my mouth dry with fear. I can't swallow. Peeta notices the shift in me and tries to meet my eyes, but I stare at my feet, my shoes drowning in the water that has yet to escape down the drain. I feel like I'm drowning. I want to escape down the drain too, run out to the river and float to the sea. Drift alone in the water. Peeta feels me pulling away from him.

"Katniss, don't do this," he whispers, pleading. My eyes finally meet his. I can feel the panic ricocheting back and forth between us like an insect stuck between two panes of glass – him begging me to stay, me telling myself to go. I swallow hard and focus on his eyes. Stay. _Stay._

"I love you," I say quietly. It's not me expressing my love to him. It's stating a fact. My clothes are wet. Your eyes are blue. I'm in love with you.

"I know," he says back. I listen to the drops. I focus on the water.

"It scares me to death," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.

"I know," he replies as he moves his hands to my face. As he steps in closer.

"If I leave someday, if I run…" I lose my words. I don't know what I'm trying to say. "Come get me."

"Okay," he agrees quietly.

"I mean it. Come get me. Because this is where I'm supposed to be, okay? This is where I want to be," I press insistently. I don't trust myself. But I trust him.

"I'll come get you," he moves his mouth softly into mine.

"Because I'm supposed to be with you, okay?" I state, tears running down my cheeks.

"Because you're supposed to be with me, I got it," he repeats into my mouth.

I wrap my arms around his neck as tight as I can manage. "Come get me," I breathe.

"I will," he promises, wrapping his arms around me. We let the water run for a long time, standing there, holding each other. Kissing softly, finding air, finding spaces where we fit. After a while, I whisper to him what Haymitch said. I tell him about the rebellion. I tell him about my dad. I see Peeta's jaw stiffen. Snow is the reason my mom retreated. Snow is the reason Prim and I almost starved to death. Snow almost took me from him, before we even had a chance.

We agree to get through tomorrow. We'll talk on the way home.

Peeta shuts off the water and pulls me into him. The water drips slowly from our bodies as we hold each other.

"I've been thinking a lot about my dad," I say.

"I bet," he replies back.

That night I dream of nothing but explosions. I wake up screaming again and again, until finally I give up altogether. I rest my head on Peeta's chest, and we both lie there awake, wanting the night to be over, but dreading the day.


	35. The Capitol - Day 7

Haymitch knocks on the door early the next morning. It doesn't much matter, neither of us really slept. We head downstairs for breakfast. The table has more food than we could possibly eat, and I get frustrated when I remember there are children in the Seam who would put an extra slip in the Reaping bowl for just one of these pastries. It amazes me how quickly I fall into indifference. I eat food I didn't kill or cook. I wear clothes I didn't buy or make. I have more shoes than I could ever need. I take long showers like I don't know how precious water is. I don't even recognize myself. I wonder if Snow won. If he turned me into something I'm not.

Peeta doesn't eat, and I wonder if he's feeling the same thing. He mixes my coffee and sets it in front of me, and then drinks his black. He never sweetens his drinks. I don't know how anyone could purposefully ingest coffee without doing something to it, but he told me he's had enough sugar for one lifetime. I can't argue with him.

Effie rattles on about the day. The morning will be filled with spectacle on the television. A segment with Cinna on my gown. A segment with Cheshire about the meal. Sneak peeks with the many interior designers and party planners and the fireworks technician. Peeta and I are the main attraction, so luckily we don't have to be on camera all day. It's all in anticipation of our grand appearance tonight.

Peeta and I decided we'd give it our all today, although revolutionary thoughts still boil in our minds. Tonight we will be the star-crossed lovers. Tell the story everyone wants to hear. I thought it might be a little easier given how close we've grown off camera, but if anything it's made it worse. I feel like they are taking something from me. Something new and personal and intimate and secret, and they are exploiting it. Exposing it and contorting it until I don't recognize my own life staring back at me. But I put on the brave face. I pretend it doesn't hurt, because I need to save my best friend. I need to save my sister.

Peeta squeezes my hand before following Portia and his team from the room. Peeta tells me his prep team doesn't really talk to him anymore. Not since we won. Before the Games, they were personable and talkative, albeit it flighty, but since he became a Victor, they are too star-struck to even speak to him. They call him "sir" or "Mr. Mellark" and dote on him like he's some kind of prince. He says his prep sessions are very lonely and isolating. Luckily he doesn't need as much work as me, so they are normally brief. He adores Portia. I never really understood how close they were until that first night Peeta and I stayed up talking. He smiles when he mentions her, always inserting her into stories or telling me what she thinks about this or that. She fills a void in his life. Not maternally, but sort of like that. She's the one person here who has always Peeta ahead of me, and I respect that. He deserves someone in his corner.

After hours of prep, we meet in the breezeway of the suite. Haymitch, who normally attends these events in whatever button-up shirt Effie has managed to force on him, is in a full Capitol tuxedo. Effie's gown is extraordinary. Weird, but extraordinary. The dress covers her body in flowing, structured ruffles. A collar that takes up nearly the entire bodice protrudes from the body like a reverse mushroom cap. Her wig is a perfectly matched shade of cobalt. I've been spending too much time with Cinna.

My dress is long and midnight black and hugs every curve of my body. I'm straight and skinny as a rule, but this dress makes me look like a woman. The front cuts low, and feathers run along the neckline. I blushed when I first saw the amount of skin I was exposing, but Cinna is playing an angle here. The shoulders each have a fire-red feather piece that almost reminds me of armor. Cinna told me he calls the look "the phoenix" after an old folk tale of a bird that rose from the ashes. He said it felt fitting. Portia gave Peeta an all-black, fitted tuxedo with accents matching mine. We don't look like the meek and modest children that went to the bakery. We look fierce. We look deadly. This is a warning to Snow. You want us with you, not against you. It's the best move we can do now.

We all head to the party as a group, although Haymitch, Cinna, Portia, and our prep teams go ahead and mingle for a while. Effie will escort us in. As we walk down the marble path leading up to the outdoor event, my jaw drops. I've been to Capitol parties. I thought I'd seen extravagance. Waste. But this is at a whole new level. The evening will end indoors in the ballroom, Effie tells us. I wonder how we will do an outdoor event, given the cold temperatures, but I soon realize the lights are providing some sort of warmth, like sunshine on your skin. I hear Effie clicking on – event of the year, smile, chins up, be a lady, close your mouth – but I can't stop looking around me.

This event has no equal. Effie gives us a quick tour, greeting guests along the way. We end in the ballroom. If I didn't know better I'd think I was still outside. The ceilings, at least forty feet in the air, have been transformed into the night sky, with stars sparkling like crystals.

"Are these cathedral ceilings, Effie?" I ask.

She gives a high-pitched giggle. "Oh goodness no, but I do appreciate the effort, Katniss."

The outdoor party is stunning. There are flower gardens with exotic blooms, ponds with vibrant fish with fins that float behind them like the satin train of a dress. There are fireplaces and musicians and even a horse-drawn carriage for guests that are too drunk or lazy to walk from one side of the party to the other.

Food. The main event of this party is food. There are tables upon tables upon tables of it. Every delicacy I've ever tasted, and then hundreds more, line the tables that spread across the space. Animals roasted and turning on spits. Platters bursting with fruits and cheeses and meats. An entire table dedicated to different ocean delicacies. I see Plutarch coming to and from this table repeatedly, like a bird at a feeder. I keep note to avoid the seafood table. In this moment I've forgotten why we came here. I am the starving little girl in 12.

"I want to taste everything," I tell Peeta. He grins at me.

"You'd better pace yourself then," he says, looking around and taking in the unachievable task.

"Okay, no more than one bite of each dish," I reply, but when we visit the first table, I'm already begging for seconds and thirds. Peeta is forced to finish everything I can't since neither of us willing to waste food, and soon we are both busting at the seam. All night different Capitolites socialize with us, and we give it our all. Apparently my token has inspired some sort of fashion craze, as everyone is making a point to show me how they have a mockingjay embroidered on their tie or hammered into silver and dangling from their ears. Unlike the districts, here we are a smashing sensation. Everyone believes our love story and is vying to leave a good impression in hopes of an invitation to our wedding. When we spy a camera immediately to our left, Peeta turns and kisses me slowly. I can feel every move of his mouth against mine, and I think of our families back home, watching us. My cheeks burn in a blush, but it actually reads well and the cameraman gives us a big thumbs up from behind the lens.

We return for more food, moving slowly from table to table, but too soon I'm waiving my hands in defeat. Peeta looks grateful that he doesn't have to finish off another one of my plates, when I see my prep team fluttering up to me. I'm thankful for familiar faces, although I soon regret it. Being around other people from the Capitol has erased what progress they'd made toward acting somewhat normal. As if they weren't difficult enough to understand normally, their Capitol accents are slurred with the effects of too many cocktails. Their faces are flushed under the pale powder they patted on each other earlier. My team is drunk.

"Why aren't you eating?" Octavia asks, gesticulating with her hands more than she normally does, which is saying something.

"I can't eat another bite. I'm stuffed," I moan. The team laughs almost in unison, as if there is some joke Peeta and I aren't a part of.

"Here, drink this!" Flavius offers, handing me a tiny stemmed glass with a clear liquid in it. As I bring it to my lips, they all start waving their hands wildly and making incomprehensible sounds that I think are supposed to be words.

"Not here!" shrieks Octavia.

"You have to go in there, otherwise you'll get it all over the floor!" Venia adds, pointing to the bathrooms.

Peeta takes the glass from my hands. "You mean this will make her sick?" he asks.

"Not sick, it will just make you vomit. So you can keep eating!" Octavia says.

"I've been _twice_ already," Venia brags. "How else would you have any fun at a feast?"

Peeta grabs my hand firmly, like he might detonate if he stands there a moment longer. "Come on, Katniss, let's dance," he says before we make our way to the dance floor. I can see the storm brewing in his eyes. I feel it too, rumbling in my chest, but now is not the time. He pulls me into him and we sway slowly on the dancefloor, barely moving. "Just when you think you can deal with it. Just when you think they're not so bad…" he voice is strained, but he cuts himself off. He knows we can't talk about this here. But we both see it. We look around and watch as these rich, desirous people gorge themselves, while back home mothers dote on starving children, counting their ribs and hating themselves. I feel guilty for the food in my stomach, and I feel it turn sour. I was only here for five minutes before I forgot who I was. I wasn't an alien in the middle of a circus, I was right there alongside them, feasting as if food weren't a luxury. I feel sick. He pulls himself close to me, and pretends to whisper salacious secrets in my ear. I giggle and flirt, but his words make me burn inside. "Maybe we were wrong."

Portia interrupts us, and Peeta pulls away from me reluctantly.

"Peeta, I don't believe you've met the Head Gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee," she says brightly, gesturing to the pompous man standing beside her, a plate of seafood in one hand.

"Ah, the man who stole my fiancée from me for an evening," Peeta jests, offering his hand. He holds mine in an iron vice in his other. We've been calling each other _fiancée_ all night, as if we don't have real names or individual identities. Every time we do someone swoons or coos at us, but Plutarch is nonreactive.

"Well, who can blame me? She's simply enchanting," he smiles at me. I was certainly anything but enchanting that night. "I was hoping I might steal her again, take her for a whirl around the dancefloor."

Neither Peeta nor I are very interested in that proposition, but behind Plutarch we see Portia nodding in encouragement. Peeta good-naturedly passes me over, warning the man not to get too attached. I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family or my prep team.

"I must say, our dinner was not quite what I expected, Miss Everdeen," Plutarch says as we move around the other dancing patrons.

"Oh?" I ask, nonplussed.

"Well, most Victors spend their time sucking up to me. Brownnosing, as we called it when I was a boy," he adds. I've never heard that phrase before, but I can't help but find it funny and chuckle a little to myself.

"That's not me," I say coolly.

"I find it rather refreshing, I must admit. Like you are somehow being more honest with me," Plutarch replies. I don't like the idea of him thinking he knows the real me. "So, let's say I owe you a truth," he says, and my feet slow. Is he going to tell me something about the Games? Something that might save Prim's life?

"Is my sister going to be reaped?" I ask quietly.

"No, Primrose will be perfectly safe, at least for the Quarter Quell," Plutarch answers, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Then we've done it. We've convinced Snow. He's not taking Prim after all. I can feel myself beaming in Plutarch's arms, and he swiftly delivers me back to Peeta.

I grab Peeta's hand and drag him away from the crowd. We stand behind a magnificent ice sculpture of the seal of Panem, light gleaming from underneath and transforming colors every few moments, shifting from blood red, to burnt orange, to a bright yellow sunrise.

"We did it," I whisper as quietly as I can, excitement bubbling in my voice like champagne.

"How do you know?" he asks, keeping himself guarded, wary.

I draw myself closer to him. I can't image any listening device could hear us whispering over the din of the partygoers, but I want to be sure. I press my mouth to his ear. "Plutarch said Prim is not going to be reaped." I pull my face back and he stares at me wide-eyed, then a giant grin washes over his face. He lifts me by the waist and swirls me around in the air until I'm dizzy. When he drops me to my feet, the room keeps spinning around me and I clutch his jacket for balance. Peeta cups my face in his hands and kisses me. This is not a party kiss. This is a moment of joy, shared by two people who haven't seen much of it. The moment is short-lived, however, when the brass instruments in the band begin blaring the anthem of Panem.

Snow steps out onto a balcony overlooking the party. Peeta and I step out from behind the statue and make our way toward the front of the crowd, hands clasped tightly together so as not to be separated by the needy hands of our admirers.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate the glory and splendor of Panem!" Snow states, his voice booming over the crowd through some unseen sound system. It makes me wonder if the listening devices at this party are invisible, too. "Tonight, on this the last day of their tour abroad, I want to welcome our two victors. Two young people who embody our ideals of strength and valor. And I personally want to congratulate them on the announcement of their engagement. Your love has inspired us. And I know it will go on inspiring us, every day, for as long as you may live." President Snow raises a glass in celebration, and across the hundreds of feet that separate us, we lock eyes. He raises his glass to me, and in a gesture that would be imperceptible to the average partygoer, he shakes his head no.

No. We haven't done it. We have not convinced Snow. Plutarch lied to my face, and I let myself believe him. Peeta saw it too, because I feel his body go rigid next to mine. He knows he has to control himself, but I can see his hand shaking as he tries not to throw the crystal flute of champagne he just received across the room. We both smile as those near us offer their congratulations, as if we'd go through with the wedding now. Tell us how delighted they are at our victory in the Games, as if that's something I should be proud of. Ask what shade of lipstick I'm wearing, as if that's important enough to know. I feel like my pulse is ringing in my ears.

I see Peeta step away from them and follow. He stops in front of a table of elaborately decorated cakes. Bakers from the kitchen swarm to tell him about frosting and this new flour sifter they use, but I see him lost there, just staring at flowers made of frosting. Thinking of home, of what we've lost. He smiles cordially, never rude, but he's not present with the people that surround him. He squeezes my hand so hard I think my fingers might break, but I squeeze his back with the same intensity. Keep me here, he's saying. Keep me with you.

They send Peeta off with some small cakes packed in elaborate boxes. "Effie said we have to be on the train at one. I wonder what time it is," he says, glancing around. As if on cue, Effie flutters toward us, every ruffle of her dress still perfectly in place.

"Time to say thank you and farewell!" trills Effie at my elbow. It's one of those moments when I just love her compulsive punctuality. She collects the rest of our team and ushers us around to bid our farewells. I thought we were going back to our rooms in the Tribute Center first, but I am grateful when Effie tells me our belongings have already been moved to the train.

"Shouldn't we thank President Snow?" asks Peeta. "It's his house."

"Oh, he's not a big one for parties. Too busy," says Effie. "I've already arranged for the necessary notes and gifts to be sent to him tomorrow." She escorts us to the front of the Mansion, where a row of luxury cars is lined up to escort us back to the train. Peeta and I are placed in the first car. A drunken Haymitch is tossed in the car behind us, Effie climbing in behind him. So much for his sobriety. Portia and Cinna take the third car, and our prep teams take the final two.

The caravan is slow moving through the thick crowd of Capitolites celebrating in the streets. The party itself was very exclusive, but the entire city is alive tonight with festivities. As they see our cars, I almost feel like I'm in another parade. They press their bodies against the vehicles, trying to see through the darkened glass to catch a view of the star-crossed lovers. Peeta and I say nothing. We ride in silence, our hands clasped tightly between us.

On the train I take the familiar path straight to my room. Peeta follows, and no one says anything to us. Once we are both inside I slam the door behind me, and everything I've been pushing down comes bubbling to the surface. I catch myself in the mirror – dress dangerous and ablaze, hair pinned, face painted. This isn't me. "Get it off," I breathe, the dress suddenly feeling like it's suffocating me. Like it's burning my skin. "Get it off!" I scream, as I start ripping at the fabric frantically. Peeta's fingers fumble through the concealed clasps on the back. Finally he just rips and I feel the fabric give way, the dress collapsing at my feet. I look at him and I feel as though his tie is choking him. I tug at it, pulling until it's loose. I throw his tie on my dress. Peeta steps forward and lifts me in the air, pulling me away from the pile of fabric on the floor. He steps into the bathroom.

He takes one pin from my hair after another, until it falls down around my shoulders. I unbutton his shirt and pull it away from his body. His chest is covered with scars from his beating, healed but marring his skin like a reminder. A warning. I kiss each one I see, as if I could mend him with my mouth. I feel his body trembling under my lips. He unsnaps my structured undergarments and pulls them away from me. Our hands have done so much exploring, but he's never seen my body bare before. This moment isn't sexual, though. It's about comfort. It's intimate. It's cathartic. We are both so broken, but we're broken together. I pull his pants and shorts away from him, and we step into the shower.

Peeta turns the water as hot as we can stand it, and we hold each other. The steam fills the room and envelops us. Hides us from a world too cruel to be a part of. He runs shampoo through my hair and I let the makeup fall away from my face. I cover his body with soapy suds. We let the water pour over us, and finally shut it off and let it drip down the drain.

Peeta takes a warm towel and wraps it around my body. He presses his mouth to mine, and we feel the train start to move away from here. Home.


	36. The Capitol to 12

We are all quiet at breakfast the next morning. The trip back to 12 will take a few days. It feels weird, but the train almost feels like home now. I'm grateful to be out of the Capitol, out of the Tribute Center and its ghosts.

Haymitch is hungover. He's only been sober a week, but after he realized we hadn't convinced Snow, he drowned himself in the abundant liquor at the party. Last night was a night of mourning. Today, though, we have a different focus.

Rebellion.

Haymitch nurses a coffee and eats greasy food. Cinna is quiet. Effie, on the other hand, is her chipper self. She twitters on about the closing tour festivities in 12.

"Well, normally, the Victory Tour coincides with District Twelve's Harvest Festival, which is held in late fall. But as we all know, normally the Victory Tour _starts_ in Twelve, not ends there. So they've delayed the Harvest Festival until our return!" Effie exclaims. They delayed the Harvest Festival? I've always thought the name was kind of stupid – it's not like we actually have crops to harvest in 12 – but its early winter now. I roll my eyes, to which Effie gives a disapproving _tisk-tisk_.

"So what's the game plan for Twelve?" I ask Haymitch. He lifts his head slightly from the table.

"Be yourselves. You're home," he grumbles. He's right. We aren't playing Snow's game anymore, and there is not rebellion in 12 to pacify even if we were. We can't exactly talk about revolution on the train, so we just all eat what we can manage of breakfast before going our separate ways for the afternoon. Effie takes over the table with plans for the closing ceremonies. Haymitch goes to his room to try and sober up. Cinna and Portia discuss the final party looks before heading to the garment car.

Peeta and I decide to wander the train together. Normally it's one of us or the other, sticking to our own turf, but today we walk hand-in-hand, pointing things out we've discovered along the way. Peeta is clearly more observant than me. I find when I'm wandering the only thing I can manage thinking of is putting one foot in front of the other. We end up in the lounge car.

I think back to early on the tour, when I wasn't sleeping and Peeta and I slept on the couch together. It was the first time we'd slept together since the cave. It felt like something settling into place. I drop on the couch. One wall is covered with books, and he grabs a couple that look interesting and brings them over. They are both antiques. Incredibly old, well before the Dark Days. I'm sure their presence is more for eye candy than actual reading material, but I open mine up.

My book talks about a traveler. A man who ends up shipwrecked in a foreign nation of tiny little people. I wonder what it is on the other side of the seas. The Capitol has told us Panem is all that remains of what was once a vast and sprawling world. I don't know that it's true, but I can only hope they are wrong. That somewhere beyond the limitlessness of the oceans, there are other nations that have found peace.

"Do you think we're alone?" I ask quietly. Conversation like this is forbidden, but at this point I'm beyond caring.

"No," Peeta smiles softly at me. "We're not alone. We have Haymitch and Effie and Portia and –" I cut him off.

"No, I mean… Do you think we're alone on Earth?" I ask more directly, my eyes still glued to an illustration in the old book. The pages smell like dust and decaying ink and glue. It's comforting in a strange way. It sort of smells like my family's plant book. I wonder if we've been making books the same way for hundreds and hundreds of years.

"I don't know," Peeta answers delicately. "I hope not."

I place the book on the table in front of us and lean back into Peeta, pressing my chest into his back.

"I'm going to miss you when we're home," he whispers, his hands running lazily through my hair.

"Me too," I say back. I'm certain my mother won't approve of any of this, even if our fake engagement somewhat legitimizes our behavior.

"My house is just so big and empty," he murmurs.

"Why didn't your family come up to the Village?" I ask. Peeta sighs.

"My mom says it's just too inconvenient to run the bakery from across town, and my dad has lived in the bakery since he was a kid. Mom's kind of resentful of everything I got after winning the Games. When I first got back, I showed up to help with the morning baking like I have my whole life, and she told me to leave. That being a victor means I don't have to do that anymore. Victor's Village is basically like a tiny prison for me, keeping me from my old life, my family. I'm not looking forward to going back," he confesses.

Guilt percolates inside me. At the same time I was rejecting Peeta, so was his family. I know I still have open wounds from the Games, and while my mother and sister tried to nurse me through them, he was alone. He was raw and empty and alone, pacing around a giant house. Left behind.

"I miss Prim," I say softly. I can't wait to be back. Peeta smiles.

"Yeah, me too actually. She was really my only friend up there," he confesses. He's told me stories about the two of them. Prim bringing him tea when he couldn't sleep. How he came home one day to find her trying to nurse a nest of birds that had been abandoned by their mother. How the two of them fed them worms and made them a house. How he helped her with her math homework. I have no idea how they spent so much time together without my noticing, but I was carefully and intentionally _not_ looking at him. Spending all my time in the woods.

"I bet she's excited about the engagement," I say, and Peeta looks kind of sad. I turn my head back to him and our eyes meet. I know what he wants to ask. _Is that still on?_ I don't have an answer. I just shrug and pull my legs into my chest. I rest my chin on my knees. I know this ride home is terrifying for him. The last time we went home, I disappeared, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling nervous. The emotion is bouncing between us, swelling and reverberating until I can't stand it.

I turn around and sit on my knees so we are at eye level. I meet Peeta's gaze. He looks back at me with blue pools filled with apprehension. I lean forward and kiss him. We aren't in one of our rooms and there are no cameras here. Effie is right down the hall. This kiss is outside the rules. I move my mouth with his. We know each other now. He knows if he caresses my bottom lip with his tongue, I'm not able to stifle a sigh. I know if I dip my tongue deep into him, his voice will grow deep. He'll cling to my legs. I can't offer him answers, but I can offer him this. I can show him that we know each other. I crawl into his lap.

We aren't supposed to be doing this. We are engaged, yes, but we are still two unsupervised teenagers. But when he pulls my hair, I press myself into him and he rewards me with a groan in the back of his throat. He stands on his knees, me still in his lap, and leans forward so that he's lies me on the couch. He drops on top of me and moves his mouth down to my neck. I whimper quietly as he pulls my skin with his teeth, and it's so sensitive I can't tell if I want him to stop or do it more.

"When we go home, do you still want me to do this?" he asks, his mouth never leaving my skin, his hands sliding under my shirt. I bite my lip and nod vehemently. "Do you still want me to kiss you here?" he whispers, dropping his head to my stomach and kissing my hip.

"Mmhmm," I hum. I tug and pull at his shirt until I bring his mouth back up to mine. We kiss until we run out of air. My lips tingle, swollen and sensitive, but it just makes everything feel that much better. I sigh and Peeta covers my mouth, worried Effie will hear us, but never stops kissing my skin, focusing on my neck, my collarbone, my jaw, my hands. I feel like he's everywhere, setting every bit of me on fire. I'm covered in sweat and panting. Peeta collapses on top of me, and the weight of him feels reassuring.

"I need to shower," I exhale, still trying to catch my breath.

"Okay," he replies, not moving or making any effort to let me up.

"We're going to get in so much trouble," I whisper, and he muffles a laugh in my shoulder.

The rest of the train ride to 12 we don't have much opportunity to talk about the rebellion. At one pit stop, Haymitch tells us we are better to wait until 12, so we do. The festivities in 12 are a few days long, so we don't see much of Cinna, Portia, or Effie. Haymitch, Peeta and I play cards and chat about home. Haymitch keeps trying to talk to us about mentoring, but every time he brings it up I shut down. I'm not sure if Plutarch lied to me, or if Prim is actually safe, but even thinking about the Quarter Quell makes me feel sick.

Behind closed doors, Peeta keeps me distracted. Things between us keep pushing forward, but it's bittersweet. He kisses me like he thinks he may never kiss me again. I kiss him like I'm afraid I'm going to push him away. I'm terrified of nights without him, of the demons that haunt my sleep. I don't want to leave him alone in his big, empty house.

When the train pulls into 12, we both let out a shaky breath.

Home.


	37. District 12 - Day 1

The first night home I scream. I'm overtired. The greetings at the train station took forever. The photo ops, the welcoming ceremonies… We weren't home until well after midnight. Peeta and I separated awkwardly. My family was there and my mother ushered me in the house after a group goodbye. I think she expects Peeta to disappear when the cameras do. I can't blame her. That was our relationship before the Tour. I was grateful for it before, but now its nighttime and I'm screaming.

It's almost as bad as when I got back from the Games themselves, except where before I dreamt of tracker jackers and fire balls, now I see my sister being ripped from my arms by men with pointed teeth. Peeta being kidnapped in the night – vanishing into thin air. Gale buried alive in ash. I choke as I come to, snot and spit drowning me in my bed.

"She's awake," Prim says, her eyes glued to me. My mother pulls my nightgown from my body, I feel it the fabric run over my skin, soaked and heavy with sweat. I'm still erratic. Trying to regain control, but not finding any. I hear a knock on the front door and flinch. It could be Peacekeepers coming to take Prim away from me. I clutch her tight to my chest as my mother heads down the stairs.

"She's fine, I promise," I hear her soothing voice float in the air. I can't hear more than that. My sister braids my hair and my mother comes back in the room with a hot mug of tea in her hands. "Here, drink this," she offers, but I set it on the nightstand. I have no interest in sleeping anymore tonight. When I finally calm back down, my sister turns out the lights and they leave me alone. I stare at the ceiling.

Early the next morning my team descends upon the house to get me ready for the first of a two-day Harvest Festival celebration. I have to laugh that we are sticking to the theme – fall colors of burnt orange and fire red – even though outside everything is gray and cold and dead. Flavius finishes my hair and spies Prim watching him from the corner. "You have very pretty hair," he beams at her, and Prim blushes and hides her face in the collar of her shirt. "I'm all done with your sister, do you want me to do yours for tonight?"

"Really?" Prim asks in disbelief.

"Of course!" he chirps, and pats the empty seat in front of him.

"I could do your nails, if you'd like," Octavia adds, inspecting Prim's hands. "Oh good. You don't have your sister's nasty habit of chewing them to bits." Octavia gives me an affably dirty look, and I shrug. Soon I'm done, and all three of them are bobbing and weaving as they prep Prim. She glows through it all. I can't help but smile. They don't make her look clownish. She looks like a girl - almost radiant in her youth.

Cinna arrives a couple hours later with my wardrobe. My dress for tonight is umber. I swear these fashion words will never leave my head. The gown falls all the way to the floor, and when I move it swishes around my feet in a playful yet elegant way. I feel overdressed. No one in 12 owns fancy clothes, even for the Harvest Festival. I'm woefully out of place, and I already feel foolish enough as it is. I look like I've been imported from the Capitol, not that I'm a daughter of 12. Cinna catches my disapproving look, and I quickly wipe it from my face.

"It's beautiful. Really. I just don't feel like myself," I offer.

"Cameras," is all Cinna says, and I know he's right. The rest of Panem will be expecting something fabulous for the Harvest Festival, and tomorrow's closing ceremonies. Still, I'm not playing Snow's stupid game anymore, and I'd rather show up in slacks and a sweater.

All my frustration evaporates when Prim comes downstairs. Cinna made her the most beautiful dress. It's shimmery and gold. She looks like she could be gilded. When she twirls the skirt lifts and the underneath sparkles in the light, but nothing shines brighter than her face. I saw the dress she had laid out to wear. It was new, or new to us anyway. Soft pink, cotton, and probably more fitting for a Reaping than a ball. This is an upgrade.

"Wow," I hear Peeta's voice from behind me. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, entranced as Prim spins. She only stops when she's too dizzy to stand upright, and sends a bright smile his way. "Maybe I'm engaged to the wrong Everdeen," Peeta teases, and Prim swats at him. He takes her hand and twirls her around once more. He looks up at me, still grinning. "Hey."

"Hey," I smile back. He steps forward and kisses my cheek politely, and I feel my mother's eyes burning into the back of my head. The rest of our team arrives in short order, and I can tell my mother feels strangely in the way. Despite Effie's persistent pestering, she's not coming to the festival tonight. My mother doesn't leave the house much, not since my dad died. She stares as Effie corrals us all into place. By now this feels normal to me, but from the look on her face we must look like some kind of circus act.

"Come now, children, we mustn't be late!" Effie chirps above the din. In quick order we're all out in the night air, leaving my mother behind to stare at a closed door.

Cameras follow us most of the way to town. Normally the Harvest Festival is held in the square, but it's also normally in the daytime and weeks earlier in the year. It's bitterly cold now, so the festivities have been moved inside the Justice Building. As a result, most people from District 12 won't be attending tonight's event. I feel guilty. I remind myself everyone will be at the closing ceremonies tomorrow. Everyone in 12 will have full bellies.

After tonight's celebration, there is a late cocktail hour at Mayor Undersee's house. _For VIPs only,_ Effie insists. At the Justice Building, Peeta and I are announced and start mingling. Effie parades Prim around, finally given a girl with beauty and class. "The girl who started it all!" Effie twitters. I've been replaced.

Peeta's hand weaves in mine, and I feel exposed. In the other districts we could hide among strangers, but here I feel the eyes of people I know on me. Merchants who trade with me in secret in the backs of their shops. Parents of children that never befriended me, who think I'm cold and indifferent. Others who never cared for me before, but since I won the Games have shown me kindness. Who have only survived this year because of Parcel Day. Some people who look at me with pity. Those are the worst. I don't want anyone's pity.

I hate being in the Justice Building. It's where my father's memorial was held. It's where they reaped my sister. It's where I said goodbye. I try to focus on the positive. There is more food than we've ever seen at any kind of event in 12. I assume the Capitol funded most of this party. They can't have the final district events be sad and boring. After the drinking and dancing begins, my mood lifts considerably. Peeta and I spin around the dance floor, capturing Prim between our arms and keeping her caged between us like a playful prisoner. Her laughter fills the night air, and for a minute I forget that everything is on the verge of collapse. That I could lose her. Instead, I watch her gold curls bounce as Peeta dips her almost to the ground, a smile dazzling across her lips.

When the music slows to a soft, romantic melody, I shift my gaze to Peeta, but he's not meeting mine, he's looking past me. "Care to dance?" a familiar voice floats across the room. I turn around and see Gale. He's dressed in clean, button-up shirt and dress slacks. I didn't even know he owned dress slacks. A brilliant smile stretches across my face and I wrap my arms around his neck. I've spent the last weeks dreaming of him dying over and over. Seeing him here, safe and alive and in person, is like breathing fresh air. I look back to Peeta.

"Oh, I was hoping I could dance with Prim," he says with a fake smile on his face. He's fooling everyone but me. Peeta takes Prim's hand and she curtsies like she's seen ladies do on television. She's much too short for him, and she stands on his feet. We never had a brother, but I imagine this is what it might have been like.

"Well?" Gale asks. I take his expectant hand and he pulls me into him. We sway to the music and are mostly quiet. We've never been much for talking, and I don't totally know what to say. I never told him about Snow's threats, and our last exchange before I left for the Tour didn't leave us on the same page. I just try to be honest.

"I missed you," I say, and I feel him relax next to me.

"I missed you too," he says gently, but the way he's looking at me makes me uncomfortable. I look over his shoulder at Peeta and Prim. They look like they could be related – blonde-haired and blue-eyed. She's swishing her dress around while they spin, making it sparkle in the light. Peeta looks happier than I've ever seen him. Maybe his family left him, but he's found another with Prim and me. Where _is_ Peeta's family? I look around but I don't see them. Gale's hand suddenly feels very foreign on my back. I shift awkwardly but I don't think he's picking up on any of it.

"I wish we weren't here. I wish we were somewhere where we could talk," Gale says, leaning in close. I pull away from him. "Oh right. Cameras."

"After the Tour ends. We can talk then," I offer quietly, and it seems to pacify him. When the song ends, we part. His hand lingers on my waist, but Effie takes my wrist and for once I'm grateful for her lack of awareness.

"We need to make our way to Mayor Undersee's home. Say goodnight to your cousin," she orders with an awkward amount of cheerfulness.

"Sorry," I say over my shoulder as Effie rushes me away from Gale. Peeta joins my side. Prim is walking home with the Hawthornes, but I wave at her before I go. The mayor's home is only a couple blocks up. My hand finds Peeta's and squeezes it tight.

"Are you excited to see Madge?" Peeta asks. I guess Madge is my friend now. We don't gossip or trade clothes, like other girls our age do. But we ate lunch together in school. And she came to say goodbye. I like to listen to her play piano. I guess that makes us friends.

"Yeah," I say, more unenthusiastically than I mean to be. Peeta gives me a look. "I'm just tired," I add.

"I know," Peeta says with understanding. "Me too."

When we reach the mayor's house, I give Madge a quick hug, but Effie hustles me away to go greet more guests. We circle the room. More drinking. Eating. Dancing. It doesn't even feel like 12. When I try to find Madge again, she seems to have disappeared. I let Peeta know I'm slipping out and he agrees to cover for me while I sneak up to Madge's room. I take the stairs to the second floor. On the way I pass the mayor's study. Madge and I would occasionally sneak in there to read. Her dad has an antique collection of books that make me forget I'm stuck here in this miserable life. We weren't allowed to take them out of that room, so we'd just lie on our stomachs and read on the floor.

I sneak inside and stare at the books on the shelves. Madge's father would be so thrilled with the collection on the train. I wonder if it left already. Maybe I could take him tomorrow. The television in the corner blares, and I try to drown it out. It's images of Peeta and I from the party at the Justice Building. Dancing, kissing. Don't people get bored of this? I start to leave the room when the screen flashes and a loud, monotone beeping draws my attention. The television goes black, and then the words "UPDATE ON DISTRICT 8" start flashing. I know I'm not supposed to see this, but I can't step away.

An announcer appears on the television. It's not a reporter or someone from any of the news stations. This is a government broadcast, meant for limited viewership. It's meant for the mayor. The gray-haired woman on the screen warns a Level 3 alert has been issued and more ground troops are being deployed to 8. All textile production has ceased. Images of District 8 flood the screen. This is not a riot. This is an uprising.

A mob of citizens with fabric and homemade masks wrapped over their faces storm the square. Buildings burn in an angry blaze. Peacekeepers shoot recklessly into the crowd. People scream and collapse and bleed on the street. But they stand up. They fight back. My heart is racing and I know I've stayed too long. I quickly make my way to do the door, and just in time as the mayor turns the corner and we almost run into each other. He greets me with a friendly smile.

"You trying to get away too?" he asks, referencing the party.

"I couldn't find Madge," I say, not completely lying.

"Oh, she went to her room," he adds, and I walk down. "Try to get her to go back downstairs, will you? Sometimes she's too like her mother."

I smile politely and quickly rush to Madge's room. She's sitting on her bed picking at a stray thread on her comforter. She's wearing the same pretty white dress she wore on Reaping Day. "Look at you. Like you came right off the streets of the Capitol," she smiles at me.

"Can I hide in here with you?" I ask, and she pushes over on the bed. I take a seat next to her and we both sit quietly. This is how most of our exchanges go. I like it. I see my mockingjay pin attached to the strap of my dress. "Oh, I just realized I never gave this back to you," I say, starting to unpin it.

"No, keep it," Madge says.

"Well, you must have expected it back," I reply. When a tribute dies, their belongs are shipped back to their district along with their body. The return of a tribute is normally a solemn event in 12. The Capitol waits until a Victor has been declared, and then all the bodies are returned in one trip. Being the farthest out, 12 is the last stop and the last to collect their fallen. Tributes come in a plain wooden box. Normally a grave has already been dug, and the box is taken directly from the train station to the cemetery. Funerals here are plain affairs. We bury our dead. Maybe someone says a few words or sings a song. The parents mourn. We give them space and time to heal. Those that can bring them food. And then we repeat the next year. And the year after. And the year after.

"I was hoping I wouldn't get it back," she replies with comfort in her voice.

"Where did you get it?" I ask, trying to delay the inevitable trip back downstairs.

"It belonged to my aunt, but I think it's been in the family for a long time," she says.

"It's a funny choice, don't you think? A mockingjay," I ask. "I mean, because of what happened in the rebellion." A mockingjay is something the Capitol never intended to exist. A cross between a weaponized Mutt and a songbird. An abhorrence, sort of like me. Madge just shrugs her shoulders, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. We hide here for a little while, but eventually we agree to head back down.

I find Peeta and check the time. It's already well past midnight. Effie finally gives us the okay to go home. It's a short walk, so Peeta and I dismiss ourselves and head back to Victor's Village on foot. The night is bitterly cold, and I wrap the fur coat Cinna gave me tight around my shoulders. Peeta's pace drags. While neither of us wanted to stay at the party, we aren't looking forward to another night alone either. Before long we're at my doorstep, both hesitating. I don't know how to do this. Things were easier on the train. When it was just us. Peeta leans in to kiss me, but I place my hand on his chest.

"I think maybe we should keep things between us private," I say, feeling uncomfortable being kissed on my doorstep by a boy, like we are on a regular date. Like anything about this is normal.

"Private from who?" Peeta asks, looking around us and finding nothing but quiet and night.

"My mother has been watching us all day," I whisper, although I'm not sure who I'm sheltering my voice from.

"The whole country knows we're engaged, Katniss," Peeta replies.

"Yeah but we aren't _really_ engaged," I retort, and Peeta takes a step back from me.

"Fine," he states coldly, moving off the steps.

"Peeta - wait," I call out, but he's already got his back to me, walking toward his house. Great. I head inside and stare at my ceiling until the sun comes up.


	38. District 12 - Day 2 Morning

I spent the whole night thinking everything through. We didn't convince Snow. The uprising in 8 proves that we don't have the numbers or force to stand up against the Capitol. People were dying. I don't want that violence to come to 12. To threaten Prim's life. We have to run away. It's the only choice I have left.

When dawn cracks through my curtains, I decide to go to the woods. I look out my window and notice Peeta's light is on. I'll talk to him when I get back. I slip on my leather boots and my father's old jacket, and walk out into the forest. My feet follow a familiar path. It's Sunday. I'm hoping my best friend is out here among the trees. I sit at our old hunting spot and drink hot tea from a thermos, watching the woods breathe. It's not long before Gale appears.

"Hi," he says gently, before taking a seat beside me on the rock where we meet. "I was hoping you'd be out here."

"Yeah, me too," I reply. I pass him the thermos and he sips from it pensively. He warms his bare hands on the metal, his jacket threadbare. He dresses his siblings, but with a family of five to care for, there is hardly anything left to barter to get himself clothes. I watch his fingers against the mug – scarred from our years in the woods, but strong, capable. Hands that have the strength and power to free coal from the earth, but delicate enough to set the most intricate snare. Hands I know. I dig into my bag and pull out a pair of soft leather gloves Cinna gave me. I offer them to Gale, who looks at them while attempting to conceal his contempt. "I don't want your fiancée's hand-me-downs," he replies bitterly, and I bury the gloves back in the bag. I don't know how to have this conversation.

"President Snow threatened to have you killed," I say, getting directly to the point.

"Anyone else?" he asks.

"Well, he didn't exactly give me a list, but I'm pretty sure both our families were included," I retort.

"Posy," he says.

"Prim," I add.

"Unless?" Gale leads. I look at him quizzically. "We'll be killed unless…"

"Unless nothing, now. I tried, but…" My words trail away from me. I've put his family in danger. I can't make up for that. I sit there in silence.

"Well, thanks for the head's up, I guess," he replies, brushing off his pants and standing. He's not taking this seriously. Or he's already resigned himself to defeat.

"I have a plan, you know," I add. We have to at least try.

"Oh really?" he says, giving me a devilish smirk. I shove his arm playfully.

"And those weren't Peeta's gloves. They were Cinna's," I say, trying to win back some points.

"Well give them back, then," Gale says, and pulls the warm gloves over his fingers. "At least I'll die in comfort," he teases, and I smile. "Okay, let's have it. What's the plan?" I start from the night Peeta and I were crowned victors. Haymitch's warning. The anger from the Capitol. The visit from Snow - how he knew we kissed. The threats. The murders in 11. The riot in 4. Seneca Crane's assassination. The red-headed Avox girl. The crowds, seething and furious. The unbreakable military base in 2. Peeta and my attempt to convince everyone we were in love. Our last-ditch effort with the engagement. Our utter failure. Gale doesn't interrupt, taking it all in. "I think we need to run away. Like we've talked about before," I conclude. Before I know what's happening, Gale spins me around in the air and I have to lock my arms around his neck so I don't fall. "Hey!" I protest, but we're both laughing too much to say more. Finally my feet find the ground, but Gale's arms remain around me, a smile overtaking his face.

"Okay, let's do it. Let's run away together," he says.

"Really?" I ask skeptically. I didn't think this would be so easy.

"Let's get out of here and never come back. I mean, it will be tough with the kids, but I really think we can do it. Are you sure, Catnip?" His eyes are hopeful.

"I'm completely sure," I affirm.

Gale drops his head and rests his forehead against mine. We stand there for a minute, bathing in one another's heat as the frigid early wind picks up around us. He smells like nature, like those winter days in the woods we spent together before the Games. Before everything changed. Gale's breath slows, and his voice drops to a hush. "I love you," he whispers, and presses his mouth to mine. I immediately push him away and he looks at me bewildered.

"I can't," I say, stepping backward.

"Why?" he persists, stepping toward me again. "Out there, you won't have to pretend anymore. We can just be us." I shake my head. I feel sick to my stomach. "Is this about Peeta?" he presses. I'm silent. "Look, you said yourself the engagement is fake. And I saw what happened last night."

"What?" I ask, the tone in my voice shifting to defensive.

"After the party was over, I walked up to your house to see how you were, but I saw the two of you out front. I saw you push him away," Gale says, reaching for my hand. "You don't have to pretend with him anymore. Once we run away, it can be different."

"I can't do this," I say, and he drops his hands from my waist, disappointment evident on his face. He turns away from me. I can't explain. Right now I just need to convince him to leave with me. If he stays behind he'll die. "All I can think about, every moment of every day, is how to keep you and Prim and my mom and everyone else I love safe. I don't have it in me to do this right now."

He sighs reluctantly. "My mother will take some convincing," Gale says, strain heavy in his tone. He's mad, but he's still coming. Maybe he thinks we'll figure it out once we are away from here.

"Mine too. But she'll understand. She won't want another daughter reaped." The mood has shifted between us. "Convincing Haymitch will be the real problem," I add.

"Haymitch?" Gale glares, turning back to me. "How big is this party you're planning?"

"I can't leave Peeta and Haymitch behind. Snow will torture them to find out where we are. They'll be killed," I argue.

"Oh so now your fiancée is coming too?" he spits.

"Stop calling him that," I say, frustration dripping in my tone.

"What about the Mellarks? His family will never come. I'm sure they'll be chomping at the bit to rat us out." Gale's tone is harsh. "And what if he decides to stay?"

"Then he stays," I say, but my cheeks are burning. I try to sound indifferent, but my voice trembles.

"You'd leave him behind?" Gale pushes.

"To save Prim, yes. I mean no. He'll come with me," I verbalize, my words a mess.

"And you want him to?" Gale asks, cold and quiet.

"Yes," I breathe.

"And would you leave me behind?" he says, his tone bordering on accusatory.

"Don't be stupid," I step back, giving myself air.

"If I can't convince my mother to drag three small children into the wilderness in the middle of winter... If I can't come, will you leave me behind?" he presses again.

"Do you think I'm kidding about this, Gale? Snow will kill you. All of you. He won't even give it a second thought. You are a pawn in this, and that's it. You are dispensable to him. Posy is dispensable to him. We have to go!" Anger seethes in my voice now. This is not about us anymore.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe the president is just playing you, Katniss? Do you think he'd really kill you? Or Peeta? You are darlings of the Capitol. He kills you, there's no wedding. How would he explain that, huh? How would he stop the Capitol itself from rioting at his feet if he killed their precious star-crossed lovers?" Gale pushes right back, practically spitting in my face. I think of Peeta, bleeding on the ground. Watching him choke on his own blood. I think of holding him down while they cut his chest open. Gale has no idea what he's talking about.

"With an uprising in Eight, I hardly think he's wasting his time on my wedding," I cut back, venom in my voice. I instantly regret my words, but I can't pull them back. They hang between us. Gale stares at me.

"What did you say?" he asks. I shake my head. "What did you say, Katniss? What did you see?"

"They were rioting. Buildings burning. They were fighting back," I state. "People were dying in the streets, and it's my fault. For what I did in the Arena. Their blood is on my hands." My words grows weary. "I should have just eaten those berries and then none of this would be happening."

Gale's voice is gentler now, his hands reach up and stroke my cheek. He's touched me more in the last fifteen minutes than he has in the last fifteen years. "No, Catnip. You didn't kill those people. You gave them an opportunity. And they were brave enough to take it. There's already talk in the mines…"

"No!" I practically yell, pushing his hands away. "You cannot talk down there, Gale. It's not safe." I think of my father, buried in rubble, paying for his rebellious tongue.

"Safe? Nowhere is safe. And safe for what? Safe to starve to death? Safe to send our children to be reaped? This is it! It's finally happening. If they are fighting in Eight, then we can fight here!" Gale rambles in his excitement.

"No, Gale. You don't know what it's like out there. You haven't seen it," I insist.

"If I had, I wouldn't be running away. I can't do this. I can't leave, not when I can be a part of something. Not if the rebellion has begun." Gale pulls the gloves from his hands and shoves them back in mine. "I changed my mind. I don't want anything from the Capitol." He turns and walks away.

"Gale, your family is more important than some rebellion. You can't just abandon them because you're angry," I shout at his back. He spins around.

"Don't throw that in my face! I risk my life every day for my family. I work in the mines for my family. I'd die protecting them. But this is about more than us, Katniss. This is about more than Prim and Posy. We shouldn't have to live like this. You of all people should see that. And if someone is going to stand up, I'm standing with them. And you should, too," he adds before turning away again.

"I've already been in a war," I throw back at him. It's easy to talk about violence and death when you've never taken a life. Never been haunted by the casualties in your wake.

"You know this is the right thing to do," he whispers.

"I will not sacrifice Prim for it," I state bluntly.

"Well, then you are complicit," he says coldly, before leaving me alone in the woods. I'm frustrated. I'm angry. I can't see straight beyond the fire burning in my gut. I kick at the ground and break a branch under my foot. I give Gale a head start and my head time to cool off, but then I need rush back to my house. My prep team will be there soon. When I open my front door, my mother is already in the kitchen making breakfast. Prim must be asleep upstairs. She was up late last night. I need to shake off what just happened. Deep breaths.

"How's Gale?" my mother asks, assessing my attire. She knows I've been in the woods.

"Good," I say with forced apathy, slinging my bag on the counter.

"You were out with Gale?" Peeta's voice drifts in from the kitchen doorway. He's holding a plate of cheese buns, trying to act indifferent but his face betraying him. "Oh, I brought breakfast," he adds faintly, before setting the plate on the table and turning to go.

"Great," I mutter under my breath, and chase him outside, my mother following us with her eyes. "Hey, wait up," I call ahead, and Peeta stops, not turning around. I grab his hand and pull him back toward me.

"Katniss, I can't do this again," he mumbles.

"You're supposed to come get me, remember?" I push.

"Well, that's what I was trying to do, but –"

"Try harder," I say, and press my mouth to his. He immediately moves his mouth with me, his fingers sweeping up my cheek, knotting in my hair. I feel his lips caressing mine. His mouth is hot against the cold air. It's the first real kiss we've shared since we got home. We kiss slowly, deliberately, in the way that shows we know each other. We kiss to make up for lost time. This is not friendly, and it's certainly not private.

"You'd run away with me if I asked you to, right?" My voice is breathy between kisses, and I draw his bottom lip into my mouth with my teeth. Peeta is slow to open his eyes, a grin spreading across his mouth.

"Who's running? You and me? Prim?" He softens his kiss and pulls away to look at my face.

"My family. Yours, if you want. Haymitch," I list.

"What about Gale?" Peeta asks.

"Maybe," I answer noncommittally.

"Sure, Katniss. I'll go," Peeta says, giving me a rueful smile. "But I don't believe for a second you will."

"Then you don't know me at all," I reply, my voice biting. "Be ready. It could be anytime."

"I'll come," he says more seriously, and I lean my head into his chest in relief. "Wherever you are," he whispers, and I remember saying those words to him on the train. _My room or yours? Wherever you are._

"Katniss, can Peeta come to breakfast?" I hear Prim shout down from her open bedroom window. I blush furiously as I step back from him.

"Can you come to breakfast?" I ask.

"Yeah," he replies, and he weaves his hand in mine.

"Good, because I think Prim is getting attached," I say.

"Oh. _Prim_ is getting attached," Peeta says with coyness in his tone.

"Yes, and frankly I have no idea what she sees in you," I add.


	39. End of the Tour

For breakfast we eat Peeta's cheese buns with the eggs my mother scrambled. Our prep teams arrive in short order and Peeta and I are readied for the closing ceremonies. Today's events occur outdoors in the town square, so we are dressed in warm furs and sweaters. For once I get to wear pants. When we arrive in town, my jaw drops in wonder. It looks… nice. 12 has been transformed into a happy place that isn't covered with years of soot and worry. Food carts and booths line the street. People happily fill their plates with grub and their cups with ale and wine. The festival is lively and rustic. I imagine the Capitol is trying to make us appear quaint and folksy. It's not entirely untrue. A fiddle plays out over the crowd, and a small group spontaneously dances and spins. I stomp to the rhythm of the music and Peeta laughs as one of his neighbors falls haphazardly to the ground, tripping on his own feet.

Suddenly, I feel Peeta's hand ripped from mine and panic surges through me. _They're taking him now, in front of everyone._ I ready myself for a fight as he's lifted in the air. Under him, though, I see his brothers Bannock and Rye hoisting him higher on their shoulders, crying out, "Let's hear it for our brother, Victor of the 74th Hunger Games!" The merchant crowd erupts in hoots and hollers of support. Peeta's face is bright red. I try to catch my breath, to cease the terror rising up in my chest.

When they finally put him down, Peeta grabs my hand and pulls us out of there. I know they are celebrating for the right reasons. This isn't for the glory of the Games. They are celebrating that we survived. That we _both_ survived. That we brought food to a starving district. That we proved something. But it still feels odd to be reveled in. We killed people.

Their faith in us will be short-lived after the last Parcel Day. When we aren't able to save the next children reaped. When we come home alone. When the wooden boxes arrive.

My mind starts wandering into unfriendly territory. If we run, there will be no more Parcel Day for 12. The next tributes will be abandoned without a mentor. I shake my head. I need to stop thinking about that. That is not my responsibility. Prim comes first. Effie comes and escorts us to the stage. If we leave, what will happen to her? I'm sure Snow will brutalize her for information she won't have. Would she run with us? I don't think Effie would be happy living in the woods.

A crowd gathers around the stage and the mayor gives a speech. It was clearly written by the Capitol, and he reads it mechanically. People clap politely at all the right cues, giving no more enthusiasm than is required, but enough to avoid censure. Peeta and I take the stage and are presented with flowers and gifts. I feel the words I've recited a dozen times now pounding in my head, but I don't see the point. Snow already won. I don't need to give the Capitol speech anymore. When I step forward to the microphone, I'm not sure what's going to come out of my mouth.

"Hi. Umm…" I stare at my hands for a second, then scan the crowd. I see Prim, smiling and waving at me. Offering me encouragement. "I, uh, I haven't had the opportunity to thank all of you for taking care of Prim while I was in the Games. I know watching me was hard on her. She felt guilty I was there, like she was somehow responsible for a cruel twist of fate. But you did what you could to make things easier on her." I gulp as I remember the stories Prim has told me. "On her way home from school, Willow Matterwood snuck Prim candy from her parent's shop. And Mrs. Ackley brought her clothes her daughter Brin had grown out of. And Thom gave her a dozen eggs from his chicken coop." I know this doesn't sound as eloquent as I want. I'm not a wordsmith. I'm frustrated with myself, but press on. "I hoped I'd come home. I promised Prim I'd try. But knowing that all of you looked out for her, took care of her when I couldn't… It's a debt I'll never be able to repay. But I promise I'll try."

I step quietly back from the microphone. It wasn't rebellious. It wasn't filled with odes of love. But it was true. Peeta finds my hand and squeezes it tight. "We can't run from these people," I whisper to him.

"I know," he mouths back, already understanding. So we choose to stay.

We start to descend from the stage when I hear a voice calling from the crowd. "Peeta! Peeta!"

"Delly!" Peeta drops my hand and runs for the bouncing head of blonde curls. When he reaches the girl he lifts her in the air and spins her around him. It almost reminds me of Gale spinning me around in the woods. I try to swallow my guilt, but it's easily overcome by another emotion. I shift uncomfortably in place watching the two of them. She pushes a curl away from his eyes and I imagine breaking her dainty little fingers with a rock.

"Katniss!" Peeta waves me over. I step forward begrudgingly. "This is Delly. She's my oldest friend," he beams proudly, as if introducing a prize pig at a fair. She sort of resembles one with her round face and pink cheeks and pretty little turned-up nose. I smile to myself, and Peeta clearly thinks I'm making nice.

"I know who you are," I reply. Delly's impossible not to know. She'll talk to anyone with functioning ears. I've had to duck her in the hall at school on more than one occasion.

"Oh, because Peet talks about me?" She asks cheerfully. _Peet?_

"No, actually, Peeta never even mentioned you," I say coldly, but she doesn't seem to be perceptive to the spite in my words at all. She just smiles brightly and before I can do anything about it, she's wrapped her arms around me. Peeta laughs out loud behind her, and I scowl at him through a mop of flaxen hair.

"I have to go find my family, but it's so wonderful to finally meet you officially! I must have spent weeks trying to braid my hair like yours after the Games, but my fingers are just too daft I guess! Maybe someday you could show me?" she gleams at me. I can't help but laugh at the idea of Delly and I braiding each other's hair, but she takes it as approval because she immediately squeals and claps her hands like a toddler with a new doll. I stare at her viciously as she presses a kiss to Peeta's cheek before she bounces back into the crowd.

"She's… nice," I say sarcastically.

"Isn't she though?" Peeta grins sincerely. I resist rolling my eyes.

The festival runs until late evening. Gale is conspicuously absent. Peeta and I dance and laugh. For the first time on the whole tour, I have a genuinely good time. There is no fancy cuisine. We eat with our fingers. Eventually Effie, Cinna, and Portia bid us farewell before boarding the train back to the Capitol, along with all the camera crews, but Peeta and I stay as long as we can. We aren't the only ones who don't want this day to end, and the night carries on for hours. I can no longer feel my feet or the tip of my nose. My cheeks are fiery from wine. The moon hangs low in the sky, and the music slows to a lazy lilt. Peeta and I sway back and forth. I lean my head on his chest and listen to a rhythm I've grown familiar to. It means I'm here. I'm alive. I'm with you. I lift my head and face him, my eyes dropping to his mouth.

"Are you going to kiss me?" he asks softly. I nod. "But the cameras left."

"I know," I reply.

"And there are people around," he says quietly, his feet stilled.

"I know," I murmur. I trace his lips with my eyes. He swallows nervously. If we do this, we are saying something. Not to the cameras. Not as the counterfeit personas we've put on display. We are in front of our friends, our family, our neighbors. The people that know us. The people we don't have to pretend in front of. The people with no expectations of us. If we do this here, we're saying its real.

I lift myself onto my tiptoes and kiss him softly. He gasps slightly into my mouth, like he can't quite believe this is happening. I bring my hands up to his cheeks, cupping his face. This is real. This is happening. I feel eyes sweep over us, then move on politely. One of Peeta's hands buries itself in my hair, the other presses into my lower back. Closer. I need you closer, he's begging.

I find comfort. I find belonging. I find peace. In the end, the cheerful din quiets into nighttime stillness. Peeta and I walk home to the Village and find ourselves lingering outside my door again.

"I'm not going to be able to stay awake tonight," I slur slightly, still coming down from the buzz of the wine.

"Katniss," Peeta scolds gently, his voice quiet.

"Come upstairs with me," I beg softly. The alcohol has made me bolder than I expect.

"You know I can't do that," Peeta whispers, pushing his fingers through my hair, pressing his forehead to mine. It's eerily similar to how I was with Gale earlier, and my face starts to burn. But it feels different here with Peeta. My skin feels like its vibrating. He steps closer to me, our bodies pressed together in the night, our skin cold but our hearts hammering fast against our chests.

"I want you," I exhale between us, and the corners of his lips turn up. A light flickers on upstairs in Prim's room, and I know I have to go inside. He kisses me tenderly good night. I sigh and go back inside to my room.

I change into a nightshirt and hang the dress in my closet. My wardrobe has been invaded by formal gowns I'll literally never ever wear again. Even if I have other formal events, I can't be seen in the same dress twice. It all seems very wasteful to me. I daydream about trading one at the Hob, letting it be sold on the black market. I could probably feed a family in the Seam for a year with what some rich Capitolite would pay to have an article of clothing that I legitimately sweat in.

I sit on my bed but refuse to lie down. I made it much longer than this on the train without sleeping, but the liquor in my system seems to be rocking me like a cradle. I can't keep my eyes open.

I get up and pace around my room. I will not spend the night seeing Prim torn to pieces. I can't wake again with my throat burning and no idea where I am. I pull a blanket from my bed and pad to the kitchen and stare at the phone on the wall. I know Peeta's number is somewhere. I find it in a tiny black book in a drawer of the office desk. There's a phone in there too, but I see Snow staring at me from the armed chair and I close the door tight, sealing him inside. I creep back to the kitchen, pick up the receiver, and dial the number from the book. It rings a couple times, and I wonder if Peeta's already asleep when the phone clicks.

"Hey," he says quietly into the receiver.

"Hey," I say softly back. "How'd you know it was me?"

"I guess I was just hoping," he replies. He's using a hushed nighttime voice, even though I know he's alone over there. There's no one to wake. I'm tethered to the telephone base in the kitchen, the receiver attached by a long ivory cord that coils back to the wall. I sit on the floor and wrap the blanket tight around my body.

"Talk to me," I ask gently.

"What about?" his voice comes over the line. I picture him in his own house, in his identical kitchen, on his identical floor.

"Just… talk to me until breakfast," I whisper.

"Okay," I can hear him smile through the phone. I smile back. "Did I tell you about the time Rye switched out Bannock's left shoe for one that was a size too small?"

I laugh lightly. "No, I haven't heard that one."

"Oh gosh," Peeta laughs just thinking about it. "It all started when Rye realized that Parker Overseer had the same shoes as Bannock…." My eyes feel heavy. I bob in and out of the story. "The best part was we all pretended that we thought just Bannock's left foot was growing. Rye had everyone in on it." The story is light, silly even, but his voice sounds like a song without a melody. "Rye got Bannock to spend an entire year's worth of savings on a new pair of shoes two sizes up, and when Bannock brought them home, he looked like he was walking around with duck feet. We called him Ducky for months," Peeta says in a low voice, his tone even. His story is happy. He's hoping I'll sleep.

"I call Prim Little Duck," I say. "Because she's growing so fast and her shirts never stay tuck…" I doze off.

The Tour is over. We're home. And so we choose. We choose to stay. We choose to fight. We choose to protect those we love. We choose each other.


	40. To Be Continued

I wasn't planning on going beyond the Tour, but I don't think I can put the story down. While I am completing As If You Have a Choice here, the story continues. Head over to I'll Be Right Beside You for the next segment of this Everlark (now) series. And… as a happy new story bonus, the first chapter is already up!

Special thanks to some amazing fans. Honestly, the reviews keep me going. Thank you so much for the encouragement, feedback, criticism, praise... It's all awesome.

Especially stjohn27 and jroseley - they are super stars.

Also - amazingshania, sunsetorangegirl, Dancer0109, fluffytardis, CrazyWithABook, pookieortega, deltagirl74, karin6824, Puppenschlitten, Ineedaname, Shellibug, betazoid4, Indie-Girl-7, so many more... Love to all of you!


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